(Sometimes you can't question these things when they come to you. You just write them and move on.)

The Man walks silently deep into the woods.
His only companions a hammer and a small sack of nails.
His feet tread where no one else has been, no one will ever again go.
Nature, warry of his every move, maintains vigilance, but the Man plods on.
Suddenly, reaching the exact heart of the forest he stops. Silence envelopes him.
Slowly he turns, seemingly burning the image of his surrounding into his very soul.
Completing the circuit he sighs. He places his tools on a fallen log and departs.
Nature hears him rustling nearby, curiosity piqued, timidity preventing investigation.
After nearly too long a while the Man reappears laden with armloads of fallen branches and logs.
One by one he sets each in place, fully aware of Nature's eyes upon him. He plods on, intent in his business.
Soon the hammer and nails are engaged and the shapes take form.
An organic platform rises in the arbor theater. Nature keeps watch.
With one last crack the nails are all in place. The stage is set.
The Man takes his time, gathers breath and takes his place. Nature listens.
The Man launches into a grand solioquy, artful, fanciful, funny and morose. Nature understands none of it.
The sun sets on the Man's monologue, and voice cracking and horse, the Man's will peters out. Nature is not impressed.
Silent now in the twilight the Man steps down from his perch.
He takes his hammer and meticulously removes each and every nail, careful to replace them in the bag he brought.
Once disassembled the stage is but a pile of branches again. Nature begins to relax.
He gathers the timber and returns to the woods, returning what he borrowed as best he can. Nature takes note.
All light gone sans the dim beam of a half moon, the Man surveys his surroundings again with his eyes closed.
He slowly, deliberately plods back down the path never to return. Nature smiles.

tags: poetry  

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