North American Backwoods
Verdant green speaks an aura, as scents among the air.
Douglas firs, a maze; beginnings nor end in sight.
Gods above, the mountains look upon their fragile Earth
caressed in the creeping silk of foliage.
In this hearth the cradle sleeps;
fertile grounds birth the Manifest.
What children come to the silent valley?
Wings and warbling bird calls;
games of cat and mouse.
Most clever of all, the ones who speak Anansi.
They talk in silken strings;
weaving webs, social paradigms
in which the hamlet is composed.
Forged in strength and calm;
a savage beauty
punctuated only by the mountains.
Silent viewers of eons
who, in their solemn thought
see the fragile weave of thread
rise and fall in arcs;
a cycle of repeated grace
a lowly din among the firs.
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