I too have wandered
the forest of longing,
and having come
to clearing, feared
to revisit those secret
paths I'd taken:
that lush call of
limb and rustle,
the scent of pine
that is your musk.
But the bruise of earth
is on me now, and in
every story that I tell.
Like these words
I give you, how
its cover is bone-dry,
but every page
is wet with leaves.