A Tangle of Lichen

On the forest floor a tangle

of fluorescent green lichen sprawls.

If I stepped on it I’d fall

a mile or two through dimensions

I’d never suspected were there.

Fresh as my daily shave the light

tingles with mayflies. The croaking

of blue jays wrinkles birch leaves

and ruffles my hair. If I fell

through the lichen I’d discover

why science loves interiors

of slow and complex evolution.

The glow of minerals plotting

revenge would reveal a depth

spelunkers have never attained.

Crystals larger than houses

would smile in post-Euclidean

glory, every facet polished

to enhance their stolid appeal.

The lichen has thought long and hard

about growing in this spot

in the center of a woods road.

It has rooted in a shade of green

that looks so unnatural it opens

not only the fourth but the fifth

dimension, the one Freud suspected

of undermining his life’s work.

No wonder I’d fall so far

and so hard, landing in plush

but fatal magma and bursting

into ash. Maybe I’d trigger

a volcanic moment the planet      

would remember long after

my human associates forget.

Maybe the lichen would inhale

my spirit as it tried to surface.

Then I’d learn what green really means

although too late to apply

that knowledge to my present tense,

the only one that matters.

Another Backyard Bear

Too Simple

Collapsed in the forest a mile

from water deep enough to float it

a boat splays in a bed of leaves.

Given this frank dereliction

Rimbaud might have prophesied

this failure of the romantic quest.

And shocked by his naïve outlook

Shelley’s hero would have drowned

in a stream barely deep enough

for wading. The rotting planks

look soft as sponge cake. Hard

to believe this craft ever buoyed

pairs of duck hunters in autumn

when the flyways crackled with game.

Now a bustle of insects claims

the dark beneath the hulk. A rasp

of phoebe’s the only birdsong

in this sadly depleted season.

I want this boat to drift again

among the lilies of Noone Pond.

I want some brazen young hero

to resurrect and deploy it

where the current stalls and last year’s

lone drowned deer has disappeared

with the breakup and exit of ice.

But already it’s more forest,

more wood decay assuming

a certain organic perspective

with which I shouldn’t interfere.

Even snapping a photo hurts

the symmetry of the scene

because I can’t plant myself

at an angle shallow enough

to catch the complete surrender

of matter to matter: a moment

too simple for art to prolong.

Feeding the Wild World

Deer and wild turkeys quarrel

over cracked corn strewn in my yard.

The deer wield hooves, the turkeys

peck and display. Each party

applies dirty looks. The corn on snow

looks festive and ornamental,

like gold dust sprinkled in quartz.

The world revolves on an axis

that terminates right at that stump,

the one on which a tom turkey

displays a halo of spiked feathers.

The deer refuse to kneel and honor

this phenomenon. Magnetic north

occurs just under the snow,

prickling their hides. I’d spread

more corn, enough for all parties,

but my appearance would spook the deer,

dismay the turkeys, and rupture

the electromagnetic tension

that holds this scene together.

Later, tired of watching the squabbles,

I’ll exit into the forest and slog

thigh-deep through pathless snow

to find an ornamental moment

I can call my own. A boulder

wigged with a snow-cap would do.

Or a wind-broken pine kneeling

with its crown all brittle and rusty.

The forest will scowl but tolerate

my presence. My clumsy deep tracks

will embody my form so firmly

the deer and turkeys, returning

to their customary habitat,                                                

in discovering the trail I’ve left

will be glad they didn’t cross me

in my gross inconceivable flesh.