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In my other world

there is more shade

than sun.

The nap of a Tennessee carpet

rolling over every hill and mountain,

across the creeks and abandoned farms,

is tall with poplar, maple, and hemlock.

The humid breath of ferns and moss,

wet on the bank, and an ancient

limestone bluff speaks of

some woodland soul, chained

with iron links all the way

to the molten core of things.

A dark forest with dappled light

is a clarion call to shower naked,

outside, in your private corner

of The Milky Way so for that

lonely instant you can say,

“I still live!”