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.