The antique chair

today a soft cloth

bathed in lemon oil

glides over the wood

deepening the rose hue

of the grain

I perch in what was

branches and trunks

in some far forest away

meditations run to

seasons of tree

what song would the story

it's life of winds sing?

soft creaking speaks

of the log runs

and the long gone

hands and arms

making the profitable abandon

willing the thoughtless cut

the echoes of screaming saws

the heartbreak

of sawmill lives

paying the ransom

Goddess exacted

for forest assault

the long legged dancer

fixing her hose

the mother dandling

her baby on a knee

the gossip of the tea party

hands wrapping the face of grief

sat in suddenly from the weakness

of a rioting heart

the graceful lines of this old chair

have outlasted them all

in it's endless realm of the dead

the guitars gently weeping

amongst the living

how the forest skeletons

exact their prices leafless

as some struggle to breathe

yet here is reborn

the love of forests

the hope of nests

the planting of many new lives

the sacred communion

with our true brother

the clear air returning

the gratefulness of living

in this history turned inward

held in the translation of Nature to Man

sweetest connection essential

finally understood as ubiquitous

may we gentle ourselves further

with thankfulness and regeneration