Here in the forest,
I forget I have a self,
merely trees and bushes
wildflowers and streams.

I open my eyes
and sprout another branch
I try to speak
but water gurgles over rocks instead.

Weary of walking
my legs pretend they’re part of me
but that’s just the sunlight,
ascending, descending,
climbing and falling.

And as for my mind –
imagine purple berries,
an egret stalking the creatures
that inhabit the brown-skinned pond.

The woods are
in the details
but they much prefer to be whole.
I enter from the trail
near Bentley Road.
That’s the last I hear from me
for five hours or more.

John Grey
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