At night a forest grows-
trees backed up as far
as eye can see,
when roads have emptied
of noise and air of smog.
When everything is quiet
enough to hear a mind.
When the dark voices pray
in ancient temples of wood
and bone, to sing hymns
in praise of all things empty.
Frost understood this fear
between each tree. Us too.
How limbs twist light
into cold spaces,
measure the huddled warmth
of shadows leaning too far.
The Forest our Father, the Night
our Mother.
We wait patiently to out-grow them both,
to rise above each canopy.
Silver trophy winner
Adding your comment:
Love, Lane
Must be a poetic thingy. I saw alot of me and my meandering ways in your words...
Then again, so do my readers sometimes. 
