You’re right. To enter you
or me
is to enter a forest
where everything’s alive.
Leaves stirring with private gesture.
Presence is vivid scent,
the eye a spy in a wooden hide:
moving through as if native
we find
how form opens to form,
bulb into fern into tree.
How life constantly turns outward –
unstoppable forest
bursting with leaves and tendrils.
If this sounds like a sketch
instead of a letter
tonight the forest’s so full of shape and sound
I hardly know where to begin
or end
do you?