Forest Fall
Now for my first contribution! It's seasonally appropriate (almost). Something about fall just makes words pour out me. I wrote this poem in the fall 2 years ago.
Forest Fall
During a solitary shuffle
through mid-autumn,
I feel the trees
growing around me.
The shrubs stand on end.
Greenery trembles at my footfalls.
Branches reach out,
beckoning me to tend
the forest which has sprouted.
I am a maverick in this land
of park rangers and tree huggers,
land-of-the-free-ers
and mother natures.
I pause at an overgrown stump
to step on its bull’s-eye rings
while the thumping and pecking
of abusive wildlife
make the habitat a headache.
Let the forest fall. Let it shrivel up.
Let it decay into brown and coarse,
dry paper leaves. Color them
blood red, rancid orange,
sick, weak yellow.
My rustling steps leave a path
of grand silent collapse
and I walk away to let the woods starve,
smacking my lips on a crisp, ripe, green apple.
Forest Fall
During a solitary shuffle
through mid-autumn,
I feel the trees
growing around me.
The shrubs stand on end.
Greenery trembles at my footfalls.
Branches reach out,
beckoning me to tend
the forest which has sprouted.
I am a maverick in this land
of park rangers and tree huggers,
land-of-the-free-ers
and mother natures.
I pause at an overgrown stump
to step on its bull’s-eye rings
while the thumping and pecking
of abusive wildlife
make the habitat a headache.
Let the forest fall. Let it shrivel up.
Let it decay into brown and coarse,
dry paper leaves. Color them
blood red, rancid orange,
sick, weak yellow.
My rustling steps leave a path
of grand silent collapse
and I walk away to let the woods starve,
smacking my lips on a crisp, ripe, green apple.