Trees
The
hum of eighteen wheeled monsters
racing
across the interstate
fills
my ears,
and
I barely hear the trickling
sound
the water
beneath
the small
wooden
bridge makes
as
it gently flows across the leaves
and
rocks. Shades of brown
dominate
the forest, blotting out
the
occasional green briars and
olive
ferns which jut up from beneath
the
dead
leaves,
like drowning hands
grasping
for life as they are pulled
down
one last time. The cool breeze
often
brings the scent of must
and
dead wood, and gray, cloudy skies block
the
sun's warmth, adding to the sense
of
isolation and solitude
these
woods convey. Beneath
my
feet lies a firm wooden bridge,
providing
passage across the narrow
ravine
where water trickles
past,
a noisy intruder in a realm
of
silence. Amidst the jumble
of
small trees surrounding me, I see two
massive,
weathered giants
flanking
either side
of
the footbridge's entrance. Easily
the
largest trees in sight, bark
peeling
and moss gradually overtaking them,
I
wonder how old they are. Why
were
they left untouched
by
loggers that harvested the others
so
long ago? At first glance, I see
by
the sharp buds and rough texture
these
giants are Sugar maples, who
as
fortune would provide, grew upon a steep
slope,
making access to them difficult
a
hundred years ago. As I look
more
closely at them, however,
they
become more . . .
Two
lovers stand here, withered
with
age and the abusive passage of time,
arms
outstretched toward
one
another, nearly touching, yet still
mere
inches from
the
other's grasp.
In
this lonely,
naked
sea of
death
and youth intermingled
they
stand,
and
despite the roar
of
trucks from across the ridge,
time
has made them
the
loneliest creatures
in
the forest.