The Forest Is Changing

Those leaves are a light, shimmery green at the top

Right at the precipice of branch meeting air

Those leaves are held strong by the binds of those beyond—

Dark green, strong; almost like the sweating sinewy arms of the trench digger

The man who spends all day, digging.

Digging up the mud on the roadside of the cosmic ridge

Digging up happiness that he can find in the one full meal it buys him.

That’s when I notice the yellowing, dry leaves. The old ones.

Stooping, coloured, weak.

All holding onto the branch of life, the branch that feeds, soothes and eventually, let’s go.

The two brothers standing in the doorway between the tree and the trench digger

And the comforts of those seeking food and comfort on coffee tables and laptops

Those two brothers guard this experience. From loss, from too much memory.

I sense the rising tide of too much memory.

The forest is changing, you see.

And so am I.

The mountains are as picturesque as all the books you read,

All the movies you watched, all the calls into the wild you experienced.

The mountains are as daunting, haunting, alleviating, changing, sensual.

As no one who lived here for years ever tells you.

The forest is changing you see.

And so am I.

Love exists here, not in animations of hearts and songs.

It exists, in the cup of tea the trench digger buys me

For taking his picture, for smiling at him.

It exists in the young boys running down a pathway to a fresh spring

To carry jerry cans of water for the pregnant lady.

All for the few ripe berries and green chillies in her garden.

It exists in the magnanimity of the sheep herder

Who lets his sheep enjoy a moment of chaos,

Only to help the new tenant light a wood stove for a simple meal of rice and beans.

And while all these images jostle for space in your mind;

The forest is changing, you see.

And so am I.

A mist engulfs entire hills and valleys, right before my eyes.

Like a hungry wind that wanted to touch all it sees.

The hills glow golden in the nights, parts of them that seem to scream out

“Here I am, look at me!”

Much like the woman whose shined up nails, sequined dress and high heels

Failed to capture the attention of the man she loved; but she thought he liked that image from the magazine.

And just as a small part of her dies in the attempt to impress

So does a small part of the forest die in the burning wails of a fire that annihilates.

Smoke that creeps up like the stove of a giant, but burns all in its path.

The forest is changing, you see.

And so am I.

These mountain people have smiles that can douse those fires.

Forest fires meet fire lines. Fire lines, drawn overnight, amidst laughter and roasted pine cones.

And the next morning, a silence screams through the pine trees.

The wind seems to mourn its own work—the smell of death is upon us.

The forest is changing, you see.

And so am I.

I woke up to another mist this morning.

It was dark, laden with spirits and lonely.

The mist touched my skin, touched the burnt grass, touched the trees, touched the earth.

And it was lonely, it was searching.

Almost like the lone survivor after a storm.

When it didn’t find any it loved or knew.

It cried; it cried so loud that I could hear it pattering on the roof

Like drums at a wedding.

It cried so painfully, that I saw the leaves shiver in silence.

It cried so pitifully, that my dog ran out to soak some of its tears.

And I watched, I watched from the shade of the dying tree.

I watched as the smoke from the tree’s pyre met the mist of tears…

And I let the tears fall.

For the forest is changing, you see.

And so am I.