There’s a little more, a little further and deeper,
into the heart, into an apartment shower,
rough, rogue and robust;
someone who knows
so much refuge,
road maps of eucalyptus splitting branches,
and scroll full terrain penned
in long hands and phrases,
the bathing forest, fierce and fearsome,
Yes, a little lighter,
like the manuscript of leaves falling and decomposing,
A little more hurried,
the anxious circle motions of bulging ants and bold cicadas shouting.
suddenly fragile, suddenly flowing and earth bargaining.
There is a little more intimate in the commas of breathing, in the heavy collision of trees’ staring, the mid air traffic of twigs arching, the self conscious exchanges of shrouded light and wilder shadows,
all honest and unassuming.
Will I carry the hiker’s sketching words,
when the leaves, the raw, the cluttered and condescending leaves, are not seeing?
Ah I secretly keep the simple legend of my own interpretation, the expanse of an outdoor written in fragments at the root of all that’s sprouting!