I Was Writing In The Book Of Trees

I was writing in the book of trees

about the memory of clouds

the explosions out loud

small flowers at the base of the seeing roots and refuge,

the foliation of stars, the dreaming boughs.

concentric circles sparked to the living ground.

I want to live in forest shade seeking the words

of shade this is foremost in my mind

and in green handwriting deepening

the darker greens in pools the forgotten mosses

we will count all losses negligible

from the branch ourselves falling lightly

as the leaves, the leaves on a lost wind

weather vane crumpled in the end

there is no end

there is only branching farther out…

mary angela douglas 5 september 2019