in the darkened wood
Rosalie Wessel
oh dear forest, hunchbacked and warty,
bellowing up to meet mother sky.
sprouting its trees like combative limbs,
lashing outwards to gore drifting clouds.
feet thump in patterns, they march like ants
through obedient trails, kept alive by eager hikers.
weeds scratch against the underside of gritty tarmac,
lain to ease pung lumber trucks tackling the growth.
they wheedle in high voices to be let out, to bloom where
they shan’t be torn away. the wild on either edge snickers.
they come from soft earth on the right side of the road,
in the warm welcome of the wooded green,
left to molder and age into whatever weeds are
in raw space, ushered into ferality
and uncrushed existence.
