skog Wilma


Liberated moves in a home of the living
where I am enclosed  by giant breathing
my steps are muffled by the moss clad floor
and the sky is a ceiling I have no wish to reach for.

The old crooked man with staff to lean on
is one fallen tree embracing a friend
the end of an era that no one is counting
a twig branching  lifeform of endless contour.

Now the woodland lake shouts: “don’t come close,
seek safer sounds of bubbling waters”.
And when darkness falls I’m still in this house
where windows and doors are so out of use



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