You have to remember the Aspen grove;
the white stalks of trees, their stuttering leaves–
the descending quiet. Vesper sparrows.
No one beside you; no one behind you.
But you hear footsteps, don’t you?
Don’t you? The white stalks, the stuttering leaves
brush your thin wrists–you turn and turn,
no one behind you, no one beside you.
The forest ascends and breaks around you,
above you. The soft underbark. Verdant.
The serrated leaves scar your finger tips,
scrape at soft you inthewhitetiletub–
The forest ascends and breaks around you;