Litterfall

All dreams and nightmares of forests
Are predicated on movement,

The idea of going deeper,
Of wandering, of getting lost,

Of getting through and coming out,
Of at least reaching a clearing—

But, staring at an empty sky,
An atmosphere-edited blue,

A scrim beyond which night expands
Speckled with fires and explosions,

Could you imagine your forest
Is not that vegetative shawl

That spread after the last ice age,
That old myth of the growing dark,

But this expanse you’ll never touch,
Much less wander through exploring,

Fearful of getting lost for good,
Hoping to avoid the shadows?

Memory is a frilly scrap
Of lichen on a dislodged rock

Kicked out of the freshly dug mouth
Of a burrow beside a creek

In a quiet part of the woods
Far from any major trackways.

Maybe the pebble tilts just so
And the lichen receives some light.

Or maybe it tumbles over.
The pebble is no wanderer,

And whether you are lost or not,
The thought never leaves the forest.