Come winter the woods will forget my boots,
Expunge my passage, deny me familiar,
As if I never traveled there, climbed there
The oaks, as low birches lurch among
The poisons – ivy and sumac.
And how is it that the sun finds blockage
There, but not the muting snow, unbroken
Over the bones of child summer,
Not the muting snow gathering stones
Of light, shattered there and shadowless?
It is not my place, the woods come winter.
It is not lush and ticked. The common trails
Are gone then, and only hare paths remain,
Run as panic not bliss, among the creaked
Groans and white forbiddance.