
I recently experienced the loss of a dear and beautiful friend, was witness to her slow and then rapid deterioration as her body withered and wilted until it could no more. This poem was written about our last time in the forest together, the forest she loved so deeply, during a brief stay when I could nurse her at my home.
As we become more and more aware of the loss of our forests, our wild places, our healthy oceans and the creatures of land, sea and air that we will never ever see again, this poem reminds me that we are bearing witness to the slow and rapid death of our living, breathing planet. I am sure I’m not alone in feeling this deep ache of loss in my solar plexus. And yet, I agree with Charles Eisenstein when he says we cannot fall into the trap of despair, of hate and blame for those whose hands destroy, because it becomes debilitating, paralysing, and we no longer have the impetus for action. As painful as it is to bear witness to the loss of all that we love we need to focus on the here and now and what we can achieve with our own two hands in our own spaces – grow, teach, share, make, innovate, connect. We are the ones we have been waiting for….
Forest Scent
The forest flowers are discreet
nothing garish or bold
a small white flower here
another creeping on a tendril
over the forest floor there
and here a tiny curved bower
of white bell flowers
hanging off an emerald fern
its perfume so strong and sweet and deep.
I pluck it,
for you to breathe in deep
on its sweet heady scent,
hesitating in the knowledge
that once plucked
its power will slowly start fading
until the scent that defines it
that draws it into the dance
of life and attraction
with flying creatures of the night
for pollination and procreation,
its sweet smell will no longer be.
Is a flower still a flower without its scent?
But I pluck it
because you cannot walk to the tiny flower bower
still hanging on the fern
your strength and life force
are slowly fading
as if you were a flower plucked
too early
and your essence
that draws you into this earthly dance
is fading like a flower’s scent.
So I pluck it
for you to breathe deep
on the sweet delicate perfume
that is here
that is now
the flower and the breather
equally here now
equally fading
the molecules of sweetness in the air
fill your weak limbs
as you lie back on the thick green mossy root
of the big Milkwood tree
looking up at the crown
of branches against the sky
its leafy fingers
stretching out like lung capillaries.
And I don’t know
when you will ever lie on a mossy forest floor again
confined as you are
to the crisp white linen of your bed
a flower plucked.
We all gravitate to you
moths to the white flower of the night
to be in the presence
of your wisdom and dark wit
your storytelling and symbol laden fairytales
as your beautiful flower scent
your essence, your you
still fills the air.
As we leave the Milkwood tree
for the last time
you step gingerly over the fallen piano at its foot
a mangle of well rotted earth smelling wood
and the wire of piano strings
returned to source
feeding the forest
that birthed its wooden shell and ivory keys
a piano by name alone now
for no song comes
from its mossy humus wood.
Is a piano still a piano without its song?
We walk out the forest
you, me
and the sweet smelling flower bower
still pulsing in my palm.
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