Scribbling poems in the woods
dark and glazed with steady rain
saying them to trees
standing guard in afternoon twilight
helpless as always in a downpour of memory
shaken loose by breezes in the crowns
a quivering of thoughts and leaves
straight up through the dripping boughs
with the hope that a few might rise
into the digital pale yellow sky
where they can be read
by anyone or no one.
