Bird Hills
By Michele Forster
Hemlocks laddered by pegs of broken branches.
Remnants of things I knew,
people I love, and can’t climb anymore.
The rings of this stump are the years I have lived.
Each pushing out from the one from before.
A shagbark hickory shingled by feathering bark.
Dead wood protects what is alive inside.
The burn of the forest allows the forest to grow again.
Fires break open what lies dormant beneath the floor.
I came to these hills to know myself.
I leave without a name.
David…I tried to submit something to UNSAID…did all the details and it wouldn’t accept it due to format…MIME? I sent it in WORD and it said that was ok???? What to do…Your friend….Rudy
also i am at rudy23@lisco.com