The
Forest
Quiet was
an altar's marble.
We were sipping from its cup.
A road of twigs
without a siren but for rain.
Mud is clay; and silence
is the sculptor's force.
Trees galore--the galloping
stillness of a brook.
Clouds--a heap of hot potatoes
keeping skin from brittle freeze.
Wood flesh whittles pencils
here for those who
listen to its breath.
Copyright © 2000 Janet I. Buck
