Lost in the Folds

By: Kathryn Gessner

The woods is not lost—
even the tenderest cedar shoots
into a blaze of mossy manzanita,
knows its way—
and I stand here listening
to squirrel and woodpecker thrum,
heat and flies, bumblebees
at the edge of garden dream
deep into something just
escaping me, some truth coming
to the surface, essence, nature.
There is absurdity in the tension
of thought here where the woods
knows where it is,
its own plot
in canopies
and springing free from rocks
that crack with time,
someone’s time after my time,
the sliding downhill rockface
impervious to its plight.

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