Walking upon trail, I stop in the heart of the trees

Snowy-white new-growth

of plum blossom peddles

—a fragrance I love—is carried to me on a breeze

 

How could I say these woods are silent?

For all around me I hear of creatures

And branches

Busy in noise-making

Though they try—in vain—to hide it

 

I linger here

 

as Frost would say, with distance more, and promises too

But stop, I must,

and breathe in these woods

For in the stopping I am renewed

 

anthony forrest