My father’s woods

Walking through my father’s woods
I am read by blind saplings
reaching out to brush my face
with their curious leafy hands.
They are the turnstiles of the forest
spreading out their arms to count
the visitors who pass—and their
broken fingers point to where
the inconsiderate visitor went.

The sun shines down between
the noble green towers creating
a kaleidoscope of oddly shaped lights
and soft cornered shadows along the
soggy path where the black earth yields
beneath my feet, creating footprints
that gather water for the mice and birds
to drink from when they leave
their perches, high and low.

In my father’s woods I am on the big screen
surrounded by a bewildered audience,
wondering what to make of my
clumsy trudging about. I become
an awkward moment in a foreign film
when the music stops and the audience
watches silently, waiting for God
knows what to happen next—and
if I pause, like a statue and listen,
I can hear them discussing me
during the intermission.