Fangorn never smelled so sweet
beneath the looming hemlocks,
heavy with untouched cones.
Maple leaves drop, then gather at the bottoms of hills
as September’s heat and October’s rains blanch
all colors from their veins.
Saturated tree trunks tower above the soggy bog
like obelisks from a time never known,
as if keeping watch over all things unseen
while releasing nutrients for their young now grown.
Wood rings whisper stories in each creak,
an ancient code, an old stand Rosetta stone
warning each passing soul of winter’s approach
despite the distant chainsaws that encroach. 

– Donny Winter