Species
Barely visible the greendark path,
all I want standing in the forest
is to hear it. Surrounded,
and suddenly trying to give
so much away.
Station and motion,
a tremor of wind
under the skin leads back
(say it: relief)
to the body progressive.
A forest silences all devices,
stirs the bounty
back to the planked heart,
foolish life-in-a-groove,
I cannot write myself
out of it, I must bow down
out of nothing (listen)
the tamaracks heaving
gallons of water
up their buttressed roots.
Lush dark pulse, sound
of moss, the greenest eye,
you can hear that too.
In your smallest self
of company and grief,
a forest can creak in.
No, you creak in.
JENNIFER K. SWEENEY is the author of five poetry collections, including Fireweed and How to Live on Bread and Music. Read more.