In Passing

In Passing

In January in New York City
you can smell the depths of the forest
but an artist who walked an 8 hour day
never reached the city limits.
Limbs of cast off Christmas trees
reach like slapped down children begging for their mother’s arms
I stroke the still green needles,
pocket a small piece of bough.

Buck or Doe?

Mid-winter, mid-wood
I smell sweet perfume.
Hoofs break snow crust
on the hill above.