Can the blanket of the forest feel my presence
like I feel the moss under my feet?
I bridge the river, stream, brook
Old cars, like ghosts, cast their shells onto the forest floor
for me to find. Rusted out bodies,
I step inside, feel hard springs beneath the degrading fabric seats.
And I am driving down a wooded road,
the dark is wandering along the horizon, edge of land,
New England boundary, outer reach of sight.
The tires cross tiny winding paths of water, snow melt, pebbly surface rain.
The radio comes on, lightly crooning speakers sound gently singing
The sun sleeps, my weary shoulder dress, flowered, feels cold through
but an arm, warm, human caring happy
holds my shoulder, candle breath heat flows into my skin.
I stop the car, a moss clearing and turn towards you
but no ones is there, the night whisper, radio sound voice
flowing through the windows caresses my hair,
I step out, moss like pillows, cloud blanket in the darkness make my bed.
I sleep, the forest dewy holds me softly
beside the streams, consciousness flows life into us.