Howdy gang, here's a new poem. I hike in the woods alone a lot and having been educated as an environmentalist, I touch, tear into, study or talk to everything. My wife hates to go with me because of that tendency. Enjoy the poem
The wind, the western sun, arrange the trees’
performance of a mottled-shadow dance.
I catch a maple leaf, half red, half green.
A leaning birch displays its golden dress.
I cross a maze of hemlock roots that hide
a marsh and dodge a ragged spider web.
The spider’s gone, but left a bundled meal
behind, still fastened to a lower spoke.
A stretch of guts, a naked spine, a skull.
I kneel and finger scattered hair. It’s strange
that hedgehog quills should ever feel so soft.
I hold the lower jaw up to the dying light.
It’s dark. I fumble to unlock the car,
and set the jawbone on the dash. The jaw
remarks, Go home. This time the death’s not yours.