I too have wandered
    the forest of longing,
    and having come
    to clearing, feared
    to revisit those secret
    paths I'd taken:
    that lush call of
    limb and rustle,
    the scent of pine
    that is your musk.

    But the bruise of earth
    is on me now, and in
    every story that I tell.

    Like these words
    I give you, how
    its cover is bone-dry,
    but every page
    is wet with leaves.

06 October 2001   01:25 hours
lost and found { } six absences