Sun falls through the trees
raven shadows call to me,
flicker ‘cross my face.
I will hold this day;
The smell of the forest floor,
soft wind on my face,
rough bark ‘neath my hand.
The tang of wild raspberry
lingers on my tongue.
I will hold this day.
Take it out and set it free
some cold winter’s night.
#29
I wrote a poem to save trees.
A Han Shan poem to dangle like a leaf
in an endangered forest.
The forest was saved.
The poem removed.
And now you want to rehang it but don’t you see?
it would be like trying to re-attach a fallen leaf to a tree.
The life force disconnected, it could only be a sad thing,
a dead trophy.
Instead we should be writing a new poem,
a poem to the trees
wishing them well.
A poem to all the other poets whose words stayed the bulldozer.
A poem to the people, all the people,
who will one day walk the forest and think,
“How wonderful.
This is the forest that poets helped save.”
#26
I study the forest outside my window,
my eyes tracing faces in the tangled branches,
sailing ships swaying in the outstretched arms,
limbed antlers, twig webs, stump mountains,
and the graceful ellipses, the watching eyes,
as the forest studies me back.
#8
Linda Studley 