What’s a memory of a fern

or an echo of moss

to the roar in the ears

from a silent fury bursting?

I’m twelve in a glade all alone,

I’m nineteen in a park with a smoke,

I’m forty-nine wishing I was six

in the meadow with just the wind.

A forest bird sings of troubles

left by the fallen tree

and it’s a miracle

I can feel anything.