The Forest

The grass grows as it
Always does
Hiding forgotten species.
We lay and rummage
Through the fray
Taking hold of
Crimson treasures – ripe and surging.

The pallet drips from
Wildflowers, as
Dandelions replant themselves.
Moments perceived meld
To our memories
By a process
Familiar and un-mysterious.

Stretched between horizons
We drift toward
Sleep. Eyes close beneath the
Eastern sun as we
Pan like sifters
For its rays.
The unknown sprouts the unseen.

The territory
Has changed
Saplings, broken through the soil,
Have scaled the emptiness
With the shadow
Of the forest
Our future has risen around us.

As our minds awake
Twisted limbs
Intersect with reality
And tangled roots stabilize
The surface
Of a maturing world
We have failed to recognize.

Yet it all feels
Speckled birch and furrowed oak
Stand, as if we knew they would,
Like wayward Ents
Weary from battle
Who have found their rest among us.

A bed of moss
And a fusion
Of openness and obscurity
Have become our home. Bounded
By a stone row
We take up ownership
Of the bond within the bramble.

© Jeremiah Dowling 2017


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About Jeremiah Dowling

I write poetry and take crazy pictures in an Orange Chair all over the United States while reading amazing books.

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