Poetry Porch: Poetry


To the cold forests
by John Kneisly

      To the cold forests I must go
and stand among the pines and brush;
bare myself like a child of three
to the needles and rough bark,
               and wait.

     I must wait there, not for the wind,
not for the duff or smoke of seasons,
not for any sound of things passing or not passing
like the rustle of thought in dreams,
               but wait.

     Until I too am rooted and rough,
indifferent to sun and cold,
holding out gummy branches stiff,
sharp and dumb as ordinary death,
               and wait

     Until the heave of blood is gone;
the shout and thrust have powdered away;
until the fire or wind may wreck me
as they willó those things that cannot choose
               or wait.

Copyright © 2014 by John Kneisly.