There is no better thing than to sit in the wood
Better yet, a strange wood
With birds–you think they’re birds– that pipe a half-screech into the canopy
The way untied balloons croon their last bits of air.
I dreamt of my father last night,
Being welcomed by his kind.
I dreamt of relief for him, whose body
Unbound from his spirit with his final exhalation.
I dreamt of relief for us, who can sit as I do now, on a fallen, forgotten stump
In the wood, anywhere in the world
Apart from it.
A part of it.