I bathe in my city forest,
its spring growth
unabashed,
so many choices:
dogwood for dancing,
maple to shelter me
from
sudden piercing sun,
Douglas fir shields me
from gusty sticky swirls
of summer wind,
quaking aspen
sings
a long melody which
I then gift the willow,
and bitter cherry
drops its all but useless
fruit
leaving blood traces
on hot pavement
which later
in the cool night
possums
feast upon.
I’m looking for the perfect
tree
firm like lodge pine,
regal like Japanese maple,
noble like Pacific yew,
gentle as willow,
but if truth be known
it’s none other
than the so called useless
black walnut
which houses
a squirrel den
whose many generations
have safely
nested
bred
nursed
grown
traipsing
year after year
up and down
its moss covered
tired limbs
to graze
and gather,
climbing
laden with fruit
late into dusk,
that’s the one;
I would scale-
to its very pinnacle
neath
the darkness
of city scape
like a love filled
predator:
a desperate
craving
human
I
offer up
my winter long
curls
as bedding
to the brood,
my body
molting
flesh
to wood
arms melding
into branches
as one
long hug
forever to sleep
in a song
of purring
chirping
buzzing
barking
and
sweet snorting.
Here
frozen in time
and finally home
Shinrin Yoku is the art of Japanese forest bathing
duopoetico 