Category: Nature Poetry

There is a child
in the woods
There is a child

His hair is leaf
his smile is water

In his cradle of beech and maple
he rocks to an evening lullaby

His eyes are sunset and horizon
his breath the hazy sky

Before his mind slips into a sleeve of stars
he turns his head to say goodnight—

but the owls have left.

The fireflies have darkened their lights.
The crickets sit like silent gargoyles.
The leaves have hardened into frost.

There is a child

There is a child

There are no woods.

There’s so much beauty in the World
that is infected by the psychotic desire
to turn everything into the mundane.

The Sun itself would be spliced and quartered
into neat chunks of comfort, if people had their way—
I mean, how else could we buy
into the illusion of immortality?

I like squirrels; I like the trees they climb even more.
Both know that when Winter rolls in,
it deserves the respect of dying.