how to enter a forest
how to enter a forest
slip off your shoes invite moss to curl between your toes let your toes curl around a twig pick it up in a one-leg wobble call the wobble a dance bow with a flourish to an audience of squirrels then stoop to hear why the acorns are heckling let it take you to the ground press your cheek to brown earth feel its breath warm on your face its secrets hot in your ear when you rise without rush walk a line of tree shadow until the sun takes a bite from your trunk when that light so alive carves you let your jaw drop the world wants to feel you biting back
The Prompt
Have we already had a how to prompt? I know I’ve considered giving one, but I can’t recall actually doing it. Of course, I have done many things that I can’t recall doing . . . so please pardon any repetitions, today or any day!
This poem originated as I was entering the woods with Jeff the Doodle, and the tree shadow pictured above threw a perfect path down at my feet. Of course I had to walk it, all the way to the tree’s trunk. I loved how the sun looked like it was taking a bite out of the tree in the photo—hence the reference to the sun’s proclivity for biting in my poem.
I don’t know that I’m especially good at all that many things, but I do seem to have some sort of knack for going into nature and then really being there. Dropping in completely. Becoming a little kid, delighted by everything. I cannot tell you with any authority how to write a great poem or how to publish a novel or even how to parent your offspring without messing them up completely. But if you want tips on how to befriend a tree or relax into appreciation of a forest, here I am! Hence, my strange little how to poem.
What is it that you know how to do? Crochet a blanket? Make the perfect grilled cheese? Run a business? Run a marathon? Make a stranger laugh?
Are there things you know how to do that were painful to learn? Terrible, even? How to inject your own insulin? How to leave a marriage? How to stay safe in a society not made for you? How to settle an estate? How to tell someone the person they love most in the world is gone?
What is your weirdest skill? What is one skill you’ve never paused to consider a skill? What is the skill you’re most proud of? What is the skill you most long for?
By now, at least a few possible how to poems have probably begun to form in your mind. Pick one. Run with it—or just sort of slither along and see what happens. You might be surprised where the poem lands. I love when that happens to me! I look forward to reading your words, friends.
I was researching snowblowers today, and got a kick out of somebody on a forum saying, in response to another poster's suggestion that they just buy a plow for their long driveway: "I embrace the suck." I can very much relate with that, so much so that I wrote a poem to help others get there, too.
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How to Embrace the Suck
.
Mishear them when they say temple;
Your body is a tractor. Make it
sweat, make it strain, rev it up
to its full one horsepower just to
see that you can. Ask what it can
do for you, then suggest a little more.
Prefer it over all other machines,
the way Honda people talk on Reddit.
It is the most durable, the most
user-friendly, the easiest to steer and
store, it’ll run 50 years with minimal
fuss, and it is implausibly also
the cheapest thing on the market.
.
Love the endorphins it feeds you
when you work it. Prefer endorphins
over all other neurotransmitters;
secretly look down on the masses
who succumb to adrenaline’s
flashier packaging. Abhor, or at least
mistrust, tech. If there is a button
you can push to make the job easier,
don't.
.
Put off buying a snowblower for
as long as possible -- ideally for a full
snowblower lifespan so you can
tell yourself you saved two thousand dollars
(more if it’s a Honda). Shovel your
ridiculously long driveway by hand
and do self-congratulatory math
revealing the size of the swimming pool
you could fill each winter (semi-Olympic).
Include that fact in a poem to impress
those who are still reading. Leave out
the other column, the one for debits
to your corporeal account. It is year 50,
and the deferred maintenance
is piled as high as the berms
you've built, making every toss
a little harder than the last.
I really enjoyed that was such a fun poem to read