Autobiography · Poetry

Lush

Cathedral Grove” © Bradley Davis, 2008. CC BY-ND 2.0.
September finds us holding
fragments of past months.

We search out a forest, green space,
somewhere lush to plant them.

Trees and grass we can walk to,
untouched by the traffic,

by the ever-present whine
of the endless energy cities spit.

Over and over we’ve asked
what’s missing,

but never stopped to wonder
if it might be nothing.

That we might be overflowing
instead of empty.

Longing for the quiet.
The stillness of rainforest.

The song only evergreens,
moss, mushrooms,

and our broken hearts know.
In the cold, wet air

they sing it to us
and we can finally hear

ourselves echoing it back.
Pulsing empathy.

“I know you. You belong here.”
Hush.

18 thoughts on “Lush

  1. hush? oh I disagree Ruby my sweet elegant lady… the forest does not hush… but makes you listen all the better… to what you think is quiet until you hear it… silence is never silence for long. There is no hush. You can rush to it only to fine yourself fooled… but I am happy to hear you. Because t’s you. Not the hush. It’s you. To listen to. Not the hush.

    You are a ninja. A stealth moth. Beautiful. Immense… and not at all quiet my, beauty.

    Like

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