Joan Naviyuk Kane

There is nothing sentimental

in this forest. A squall, birch boughs

sibilant. Some hearth upwind glut

with wet wood. You, who have

taken a fine polish, could have wed

a woman you would have loved.

I dwelt once beneath a linden tree

sprung up between leaves of mica,

scaffolds, lanes of passing traffic.

Its redolence stifling and flawless,

conditional. I do not miss it.

Clubmoss torn from a tangled

understory underfoot: its spores

ground and blown into a burn,

strewn — burnt rapidly, & bright.

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