This forest is riotous
with pale ferns and
sappy silences.
We forge through
tawny underbrush,
foolishly foodless,
though this climb is
not fruitless.
We gorge on dreams,
on if only’s,
on rosy longings.
The months ahead loom,
more daunting than
a mountain top.
So what if we stopped?
Just strung up
our canvass hammock and
waited for the clock
to tick tock
us into June-
when we’ll
box up our belongings
and escape
the city gloom?
pm poetry 