Voice of the Forest

A poem by John Grey

It’s quiet more than anything.
Oaks and pines,
the dead tree scraping against the living,
the occasional chirp
from the canopy’s invisible bird life.
Plenty of tracks of course
but of muted creatures,
the ghosts of forest night life.
There’s wild-flowers
like the solitary lady slipper
but its speech is scent,
its bright pink
circumvents the need for conversation.
And occasional streaks of light
give substance to the air
but noiselessly.

Sure, I hear my footsteps
on the matted leaves,
the crack of branch
against my shoulders, knee,
and breaths, those missives
from my interior
to the leafage, to the grassy ditches.
But they have no echo, no resonance.
If a sound is damped, dissipated,
the moment it is made,
it is no sound.
Sure I could say something out loud.
But in this place,
that’s not how words get spoken.