When I feel raw and
humble, I head under the bridge,
past the Minimalist magenta sculpture, up the quickly ascending trail,
beneath a felled tree.
Autumn, insect bodies slide over the eyes
of winter's drowned stones.
arteries clear of debris, water plunges where
it hardly trickled.
browns, hues of red continue to blush. The Green
Man is grinning. In summer, one
could see no further. Now the forest's apoptosis,
the normal death of cells, freeing it from life's entanglements,
opens it to its depths.