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.about the author