with a log too large
and a grudge too grand
we walk the fern-filled forest

the fire burns as the dog declines
silence sweeps in for twilight
a singular remark on my snipped tongue
stings the beauty of the afternoon wood walk

soon the whimpering dog descends
into a fetal acceptance of nightfall
as distant dogs bark and Kentucky sun dips
into a day that started beneath a set
of 300-year-old pin oaks

fireflies make their way across the naked path
that i walk without you this week
no protection from the bug-bogged creek beds
from the darkened daggers of words
that break down with wood-eating fungus


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