“Forests are where you hear the trees—
a foreign film murmuring.
Undercover life forces tunnel, restructure
the strata of decay, fumbling the wet & bronze & rosewood needles,
nudging & moving down & into
Some dusks you think you see stained-glass windows
& brackish, inland pools fill the eyes.
Part of the winter forest’s strategy is transparency,
but that makes it feel known.
So the subnivean zone forms—
under-snow rooms, or unconscious zones
in which you feel no hunger
& curl deaf & blind
in apparently meaningless passages.”
— Miranda Field, “Oneiric Theory”
The forest is thick, but it’s light,
Like a temple, like Athens city.
In the forest every daybreak seems
An outbreak of harmless fire.
When the sun rises, its descent is silent-
Here rarely anyone comes to visit.
It is dozing fitfully, or mist has descended.
There is no pillow
On its bed. The empty paths
Are eternally circular. Deep breathing,
Rational breathing - carefree breathing here.
“Oh turn your back, you say
Oh turn your back
Letters in the trees cull
wild irises and pickle weeds.
I am reading against the bark…
at my upturned throat,
the ground shifting urgently
toward the gulls.
I am much too far away from the clearing,
much too far from this place of east winds.
In the clearing,
deer move from the thistle,
curiously pressing their noses
against your boots.”
-Jane Wong, from “Duel”