Could Forest

Could Forest

There are

confused roots,

reaching in every

direction,

driven,

by memory of water.

Pregnant night,

righteous flash

of thunder

lightning drenches,

steam mists,

and a frog's throat

swells.

Limp limbs

dip,

heavy leaves curl,

holding

communal reservoirs.

Nests of

old species

yet

undiscovered,

coddle the

hatchling’s

first night

in the trees.

Morphine tongued

viper,

there and gone,

slithering beneath

cathedral

skies.

The gorillas

wade the razor grass,

then disappear

into the hold

of a sagging timberline.

Sweeping tops

of umbrella

trees

cover their

lumber.

Crush

of insect screams,

fill the humid

voids.

Fruit bats lunge

near orchids

in the dark.

Mosquitoes stab

their  prey

steal blood,

until tiny

abdomens might

burst.

Then,

they ferry the stuff

away in the night.

Great falls of water

lather

volcanic rock,

loud

in the light of moon’s wash.

On

tips of

my fingers

I could feel all this,

and more.

In

the dark,

this jungle

behind my eyes.

Hayward 2006