They have yet to wake;
low forests in my forehead -
somnolent willows,
quaking aspen.
They vibrate, twitter -
unfurl 'neath shadowed sun.
Backs sway to snapping,
aright, bend then sigh again.
Slothful firs prick widened eyes;
painfully lush, we wait.
Sap flows o’er fertile mind;
still, my woodlands sleep.
Written
January 13, 2003
My Woodlands
