In The Plainfield Forest

One early spring evening
We were bushwhacking in the
Vast forest behind his house
Encircling Deer Hill.

There’s little he misses in the forests
With his blue blue eyes and
Exquisite sensitivities to everything.

As we’re walking the muddy leaf laden earth,
I grab onto every tree and branch I can find to keep from falling and breaking an osteopathic bone.

Upon making our way back,
before the rise of the gargantuan pink haloed waxing April moon.
My pace way too slowly for his long deer like legs,
I let go of a sapling fallen over
Which I’ve used to help pull me up a steep slope.

I’m not looking at the expanse of trees or their relationship to each other,
I’m not looking at the whole at all.
The lilliputian
is all I see this day.

He turns around and coming back
As if about today give me a hand across a brook,
(Which I almost always refuse,
Fierce in my independence),
He Instead continues astern, I see, to free, the
Beech sapling which has helped me on my way, from
It’s confinement under another fallen atop her.

In bed the next morning,
He is reading my body
As if I am that scion
Pinned under a great burden,
Which yes, I have been, in this life.