A man once sang he'd rather be a forest than a street –
green canopy of living shelter,
shielding from preying eyes,
soft sun-warmed soil underfoot,
and rivers, rivers –
a forest, yes, I too am inclined to feel that way.
If I'm a forest, and a part of me died,
fell away from my soul like rotting bark,
tell me, would you hear the sound?
It's not loud; a light crunch.
Do you see how much I trust you? You're a forest fire,
You could destroy me,
could make me new. There's no telling
what you'd do to me.
Streets are easier; always illuminated –
with sunlight, headlight, lamplight –
transparent, organized, open-lanes.
Sometimes I'm pitch-black,
deep, no street signs or detours –
you'll be confused at times, lost as I am.
No, I am no street; but I'm hoping
I'm still worth the travels.