Dark forest, blacks and browns
united in the thickest wilds.
The occasional silver pine,
is a reminder of our history.

Ignore the woods, focus
on what is here; given, left.
What dare I leave here,
in this holiest of places?

I have planted trees, and
you have seen my gardens.
But this is your place
and I am no gardener.

When I am dead. Seconds,
to a universalist.
What dare I leave here,
in this garden cosmic?

There is a song my mother
would sing to me as I wept.
I’ve lost the tune and the words,
but they are unimportant.

I have struggled with swords,
and inkwells, and sunrises.
But the infinite unravels ahead,
and I am a frozen deer.