A footprint in the mud
Overflowing with water
A monotone grey sky
Pours a calm steady rain
Small eyes glitter
In the hollows of a tree
The air is cool
But does not bite
I lose myself
As I wander the woods
A path less trodden
But not by much
I examine my thoughts
But find nothing of note
So I leave my head be
To kick at the puddles
In one such I find
A small twig of pine
And roll it back and forth  
Feeling the sap coat my fingers
As I continued to walk
And play with the twig
Something profound
Washed over me as the rain
A feeling, a sense
Perhaps even a smell
But there was no thought
No philosophy, no revelation
Just a fullness that came
With simply being
In and of itself

A forest that grows on pain,
A scar on every leaf.
Yet,
A day that does not wait for death,
Silence says that tomorrow will come.

Every purest element in life reminds me of you
cause I know you feel the magic too
The moon, stars, warmth of a gentle sun
sound of the wind, trees
those special spots in the forest where we run.

L.C.

Summer nights had lost their luster
As a million fireflies dim their embers;
Only in nostalgia could we glance
Those scenes where they once danced

Lost are their glimmer—
The forests mourn their partners
For they've taken its tiny souls
Mystic glows that made them whole

Their embers were put to rest,
And murk swallowed these blessed;
Their shine that wanes to bloom
Now forever sleeps in gloom.

Something lurks in the forest of veils,
A place far from the war,
Which 'we' prevail.

A ripple of unrest,
Within the blankets of truth,
Hanging in the dripping branches.

What is a which hunt, without a lie,
One to convince us were doing good for 'us,'
A blatant killer,

Is among us.

She was busy counting wolves
conversing with crows
soft and white as a widow's linen.
They scoffed at her,
called her delicate,
only good for stew.
So she dug herself into stories,
buried beneath the noise
let them hunt after the myth of her,
never finding it.  
The forest swallowed her,
dried leaves and damp earth
scented with cinnamon
embracing her bones
in the hush of the underbrush.
She multiplied in silence
beneath the roots,
growing wild
through branches of wildflowers.
The thicket whispers a warning.
The hunters have gone missing,
and the doe-eyed jejune "varmint"
awakens whole, green with breath,
wild,
and never soft again.