"Towards the Woods"
I promised I would glance at the river,
not linger long in its abundance—
the suck and draw of stones smooth
enough to slip into a pocket, as you
have done with me, for safe-keeping.
I was sore with cold, pronounced dead
upon arrival. A ghost, I composed siren’s
songs before the trees closed in on me,
before I disappeared into one of my strophes.
If I have invented these shadows of leaves,
if the arms of branches have turned away,
tidied up the mess of fallen angels, why
can’t we tumble in the spray,
lulled by river mist, a rainbow, droplets
of golden arch, beads of sun. You step out
through the trees, a green man, not comfort-
able with indecision. The drone of white
woods when you scatter, all shyness between us.
You take my hands, empty each pocket, drop all
unanswered questions into the bubbling forest.
© 2005 Laurie Byro
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