The White Forbiddance

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.

Image: Alisa Anton on Unsplash

4 Thoughts

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