It’s the sound of the woods,
the sway of the trees, the spread of limbs
leaving shadows, The way the leaves
seem too tired to hang on
and fall to the ground,
making carpet for wee things
that run in the night.

It’s the silence
when not even a breeze
stirs through the brush, or the frost
krinkles beneath boots
with thick tread, or how the acorns
all capped deep in dreams,
stay close to the oak.

It’s violets, shy in the shade,
a rose wrapped round a trunk,
the petal that fell,
Its pulpwood and paper,
and a cheap ball point pen,
It’s insomnia at 2 a.m.
that turns a forest into a poem.