I Was Writing In The Book Of Trees

I was writing in the book of trees
about the memory of clouds
the explosions out loud

small flowers at the base of the seeing roots and refuge,
the foliation of stars, the dreaming boughs.
concentric circles sparked to the living ground.

I want to live in forest shade seeking the words
of shade this is foremost in my mind
and in green handwriting deepening

the darker greens in pools the forgotten mosses
we will count all losses negligible
from the branch ourselves falling lightly

as the leaves, the leaves on a lost wind
weathervane crumpled in the end
there is no end

there is only branching farther out...

mary angela douglas 5 september 2019