Crunching Across

Crunching across

Fallen leaves along the riverbank

Shrouded in fog

Blurring the deciduous

Skeletons of the forest.

In the Forest

In the forest,

It’s always hard to find a place

Named camouflage.

Don’t Speak of the Rainbow

Do you speak the rainbow?

Let its radiance slip between your teeth.

Falling over the rolling hills.

Falling into a clearing in the forest.

Falling on butterflies in the breeze.

Falling on a patch of golden flowers

At the foot of a dying tree.

Can you speak the rainbow

And let the colors fall on my ears?

Or do you speak of the rainbow.

And tell me in black and white.

And wash the floor of the fancy colors.

And burn down the woods.

And strip-mine the hills.

And leave a big smoking hole.

And chase away the butterflies.

Patches of Lichen

Patches of lichen

On the tree trunk drinking in

Moisture from the air.

The Mist and Dormant

The mist and dormant

Trees hide secrets in the woods

Waiting to find you.

September Poem 48: The Hunter’s Coup: a Pair of Haiku

You dress your kill in

The forest bathing in blood

Up to the elbows.

 

The bear is brother,

And all the world is a stage.

You have killed Caesar.