Fresh Snow (day 2678)

Upon the breath
Of mornings frost
Four deer parley
Just out the hedge
To which feels so
Nearer than
Long past dreams
Shaken off
Which barks at dormancy
Like soon Spring’s bust.
Yet laying softly
Which carries remains
Of late night travellers
Snow, of course,
That came so quietly
Floundered about
Biting at the air.

Those Trees (day 2524)

What trees came out of here?
What harm has been done before
How could we have ever saved you
Ten thousand miles away?
Chainsaws and axes thrown
Into your hearts of gold
Good soil twisted off again
Broken away and shipped beyond
Pretending another way.

Darkness returns in your future’s growth
Overstory large and bark
Grabbing at a curious mind
Peaks and valleys roughening
Softening along the floor
Moss returns again.

Inner Bark (day 2425)

I’m turning over a new leaf
– Budding spirals green in depth,
Spring’s warming showers –
My lines have turned
My shadows shifted
My inner bark has begun to stretch
To where my roots know how to find.
This heart of mine has slept and drank
My eyes have wept and cleared
New toes of length have wiggled free
For today I continue blossoming.

Ancient Forest, Ranger (day 2142)

Walking through the ancient forest
I pick up broken sticks
I pick up what has left the home
To wander alone, to wander, Ranger.

Many times I’ve shared my thoughts
With wholesome handsome faces,
In a trunk of ancient bark
I sing songs of fallen trees
That show me signs of what has begun
In silver rays of spying lightness
And broken sticks below my foot
Though an ancient forest I remain.

Calling (day 2096)

This is my calling
Run through the forest
Trails along the way
Lead me home, sometimes.

Forage some berries
Discover a toadstool
Help a little frog
Along its merry way.

Some paths grow narrow
Hardly able to walk
A step on a branch
Scares the whole flock.

And then open up
To a wide open meadow
Dig up some roots
Soil to my soul.

This is my calling
Deep winter bark
Roots on my threshold
Home in the end.

Tracing Blurry Lines (day 1844)

My eyes have become the blurry vision
Of what they once used to see,
Fading sunlight in a white-washed
Washing machine.
The deck has become stained
With forgotten footsteps,
Leaving only smears
As marks on my mind.
And I delicately touch rough bark
Encircling our plum tree,
Tracing lines from hither to tither
Like the vision I once used to see.

Tracing Blurry Lines by Ned Tobin