Berghaus im Wald

The forest forgets when it began
To forget. There's no way to detect
A hole in the middle of the world;

There's no world there to detect.
The forest doesn't know this. It can't.
It sets out new leaves. Seedlings flourish.

The seasons confirm enduring things.
Snow, ice, retreat, rain, mud, flourishing,
The green-gold cathedrals of summer,

Eternal transience of autumn,
That gorgeous gypsy of surrender.
Snow, ice, retreat, rain, mud, flourishing.

The regularities of being
A summary of being alive
All contribute to the whispering

Of wishes among the short-lived leaves
Who believe they alone are martyrs
To a forever that transcends them.