Strange Woods

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. 

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