My hand grazes the bark of a nearby tree and it flakes away—

I recall a café

On a morning in Paris

Flaky—croissant—coffee—bliss

But then the mild musk of European cigarettes

Pulls me

From reverie

To this musky tree

Who knows nothing of France

Nor should he

And so, this wood grows and gives and enchants

 

anthony forrest

read the first stanza here

and the second stanza here