I’ve been told not to go. Warned
of the dangers to trees, and so to me—
the instability caused by too many storms
and saturated ground. But I know
this forest. I know these trails. I know
which trees are dropping bark, disrobing
to the bones. Which ones are being measled
by insects, drilled by woodpeckers,
weakened at the trunk by antlering deer
who scrape and rub, shavings of pungent relief
sifting down. I see which trees have fallen
into leaning, assess the strength of whatever
they’re leaning on. Isn’t everything falling
anyway? I believe I’ll hear the fractures
when they come. And in my tree bones, I know
the greater peril is staying away, caught
in the leg-hold of the other world.
–
Brett Warren (she/her) is a long-time editor and the author of a full-length poetry collection, The Map of Unseen Things (Pine Row Press, 2023). Her poetry has been published in Canary, Halfway Down the Stairs, Hole in the Head Review, ONE ART, Rise Up Review, SWWIM, and elsewhere.