Woods

In ham,
when beech shells clot the ground,
take crushes, slow
green dissolving into lonesome lichen
and moss shaped lovers,
summer exhausted,
set to seed, I sit,
watch the river bleed out,
hear her, birds speaking
languages I'll never know
in trees,
gazing at views I'll never see,
it's proper holy,
'nt it?
All fluff ferned and lush,
tail end peak
before full fledged decline
and I love it,
eat it instead of sandwiches
with pickle and cheese,
so gannetly I walk on
with hiccups and an ache.