falling from boughs
of hemlock and beech
the roar of the stream
the water cycle
- a few of its faces
a massive white pine
older than old
rises straight as an arrow
how many travelers
have marveled at the sight
of this ancient one?
after climbing over wet rocks
i came to a flat spot
where i drank from
the bottle in my pack
and watched mist drift by
- a few faces forgotten before
at the junction
of the long trail
that stretches border-to-border
i met a group of four
weary-looking travelers
they seemed surprised to see me
walking through
a gate of birches
i saw too many scratches
on their smooth paper skin
why feel the need
to leave oneself behind?
i stopped to eat
my apple along the way
when i am hungry
i eat
when i am tired
i sleep
climbing steadily for a while
looking at shelf fungus
the woods opening up
i thought i heard voices
on two occasions
perhaps it was the trees
nearing the top
pushing through red spruce
i stopped to write
leaning my staff against a tree
i crushed a moth
which fell to the ground
picking it gently up
to say i was sorry
i was happy to see
its wings flutter
as it flew a short distance
- now the cold will get it
a shrine of smooth stones
stacked atop each other
and in the branches of trees
as though spirits were here
i chose not to add
mine to a pile
at the summit
of white rocks cliff
ragged clouds above
valley below touched with fire
of changing leaves
nothing but cold wind between
and on the way back down
hiking quickly along
cold, hungry, and tired
i kept forgetting
to embrace the forest
that was embracing me
