Sometimes, Often

I go to visit the forest to see if it is lonely.
I have visited it thousands of times.
The trees tower above me. I am swallowed up
as soon as I enter.
I ask the forest if it is lonely.
The mists swirl around me, old breath,
the boggy parts of ponds,
even the crickets, go dead silent,
the leaves stop their frottage orgy.

It’s never answered me once, in thousands of times.

It is a proud forest, busy hoarding death.

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