Sunlight, at the Bottom of a Well

Down among the ferns and
spreading leaves of trillium, I
forget the sky. It's miles behind
at the top of Marquam Hill. Here sunlight
is something I drink
from the bottom of a well. Black squirrels romp
across the path.

I'll walk these woods
as they burn yellow, orange,
vine maple red. October nights are cold
and the hills feel frost. Leaves will hide the trail
and I'll be lost, until the sky
reappears to guide me, signposted
by bare branches.

Then the wells of sunlight
will fill with rain. Instead of leaf-whispers above,
I'll hear water murmur underfoot
and ferns talking about old times:
We were giants, once. We could always see the sky.
We were the jungle.

Available! High-Voltage Lines, Knocking from Inside