no wild creatures turn up in my forest.
my forest simply is.
it is for the owl’s lonely hoot
and the spider’s stroll along the moon’s lips,
for the she-bears who do not rush to towns,
but move away behind coy shrubs,
for the great fear of the shepherd dogs,
for the cheese wheels, the handfuls of blackberries,
the pocketfuls of hazelnuts and close-up photos.
what wouldn’t I give for a blindfold game
among the fir trees, through waist-high snow,
or for getting merry with the summer’s resinous flavour,
calling over the shadows, the sun’s lovers
and the falling stars at night?
I do not want my forest to show me anything,
I just want it to be,
to care a bit about me, about you.
I want it to be neither in the headlines,
nor in any of the woodman’s nightmares,
nor quoted on the timber exchange.
I wish it to be the sleeve of your green pullover
through which your heart slips free,
prowling about like a falling leaf,
red-veined, a pool of gestures,
jokes, questions, buffoonery,
betraying a basso profundo of liberation.