the F o r e s t

I keep a candle lit
made of something recyclable
and sit.

Strolling down a road
made of jagged rocks, no pavement for the old.
Flute in tune, flute in head,
humming a tune in which is very very dead.

While the radio plays static,
the sky plays rain.
The same old colours of gray
emanate from that forest's attic.

I keep a candle lit
sit here and knit,
but the lantern has blown out
it's raining, it's raining now.

The forest is afflicted with blights,
heavy stomping courted by torched lights,
small feet, but they do well to fright.
The forest hates them and their power to ignite.

The sap is to be bled,
they have yet to find me ... yet.
I hope they go,
or else I'll have to wait for snow.
I have miles more to hide,
the forest, like my mother, should keep me alive.