those who never saw the forest for the trees,
I never understood,
and maybe it was the log in my eye
that kept me focused on the wood,
but I’m coming back down now,
descending on the copse from the clouds,
past every leaf and every twig
and even to the heartwood – exposed and browning –
they are precious in a way, to me, I know they weren’t before,
though now my aim is underneath
across the forest floor,
and if your hands aren’t even dirtied,
I’ll ask you, as I ask myself, what are you living for?
