The TRUTH, written
on the BOARD:
A SIREN NEVER bodes well

Georg’ann

Running up, or down, the trail
she stops OFTEN to pet moss,
tosses rocks and acorns, yelling “Be free”.
Shakes small trees, listening to the rustling.
Pretends small branches are hands,
reaches out to shake them,
“Nice to meet you” as she makes up a name.
The hollowed out, rotting trunks
pocked with holes are assessed
to be a bug and bird DINER.
A pair of slender, smooth, middle aged trunks
curve together, small space between them,
draws her attention.
While alone a few months ago,
I had photographed them.
“It’s a couple leaning on each other.”
For me they were in a sensual dance.
We talk about the birch leaves,
how they stay through winter.
NEVER a hesitation, this young poet states,
“They hold their leaves like memories”

Heather