In woods,
along the ocean,
the trees feed along briny streams,
the moon feeding,
then starving,
day upon day –
time without end
In woods,
forest that turn towards marsh,
estuaries holding heron,
dinosaur-like beasts taking wing
beating along curving waters,
disappearing into copses of white cedar
scrubby pine, bent by winds
In woods,
where I fed her grapes,
a picnic my young heart had packed,
the wind in the trees,
the gulls that called in the distance –
these fumbling, awkward hands,
my eyes full of beauty
and the paths I had not found
Writer Moe 