Gravity drawn

every last leaf returns

from reaching, windswept and tossed

to rest with moss, root, red needle and stone.


Snow begins to fall. One flake, then another and

another. Wood bugs, prehistoric gentle and slow

work the moist darkness turning returning

the forest. Sometimes I dream leaving

the path, lying down, falling asleep.


But it isn’t sleep. My return

to fallen leaf, moss

root, red needle

and bone.




4 thoughts on “Return

  1. Chris … delicacy and precision of your poetry is b e u t I f u l!

    ‘… work the moist darkness turning returning

    the forest …’ just lovely!


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