I wake up in a forest
and assume it is a dream

But there is no wind in sleep
and the way the gentle breeze
wraps arms around my doubts,
I know I am awake.

It is no forest I’ve known, for the trees
carry not the parched bark of the arid mountains
nor the soft blossoms of the city
but glisten of untold stories all their own.

The bluebirds sing, but not to me
for it is a foreign melody as they ride
the rays of the sun’s gentle kiss
from cloud to bough and back again.

Wildflowers bloom in unfamiliar hues
Not the indigo towers or tangerine smiles
I’m used to, but cyan spirals and scarlet
webs crawl across a mossy forest floor

I watch a fox who does not slink
but walks with the confidence of one who
has never known the teeth of a hunter’s trap
And his footprints leave clues as I unravel

The story of where I find myself
“Whose woods these are I think I know.”*
For these are not the trees of my childhood
Nor the witch’s woods I once dreamed of

These woods are all their own
Belonging to no man, owned by no state,
they grow fearless and full for they are
Free.

*Line from “Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening” by Robert Frost