Interior of a Forest (Cezanne)

#74

The forest waits each time we go away

And knows itself again when we return.

Each branch on every tree has either died

Or grown new leaves or limbs, as if to stay

The same, above the ground grown wild with ferns,

Was once considered, but never once tried.

The pileated woodpecker's square holes

Have gone dark gray; his maniac laughter

Fades into the leaf rustle and only after

We leave returns to the silence we stole.

The river's deep and can be treacherous.

Its trout will not be caught, its otter trapped.

Its odd meanderings cannot be mapped.

The river forest waits, but not for us.