I often run through a wooded forest in northern Ohio where solely a footpath makes a two mile circuit. Never is there company along with me and almost never anyone else encountered during my excursions. Yet many signs and remnants of profound companionship abound etched as paired initials into trees, etched as treed testimonies of love. As I run, I take notice and feel somewhat awash in these hints of romance and in these entanglements portrayed. Strangely enough none seem recent-all the wounds are well-healed. Seems the trees no longer serve as totem posts of affection.

So this:

A long time's now passed
for the lovers unwatched
who carved hearts into trees:
such moments of delight
in inscribing nothings to each other!

To have strolled and played
and taken only such from these
unprotesting spires--no more--
than for to leave their enchanted vows
disturbed not the Great Mother.

An age ago on a tree with smooth bark
one boy recorded
"here I loved Val…a great fuck forever!",
etching also an arrow
pointing suggestively down
to the soft ground below.

As I ponder, I imagine:
There she lies even now!
beckoning to me with unfading smile
to provide her with company
and fulfill the long-gone boy's dreams
of living forever!

What is Life? It is the flutter of the butterfly over a flower. It is the racing heart of a cheetah in antelope pursuit. It is the darkling in twilight that hides in shadows and scampers nearly noiseless in anticipation of the night.