Forest Blanket
Forest Blanket
Version 1
I pull the blanket of forest around me wrap myself in trees and ferns and shrubs, mosses and mushrooms, lichens and bracket fungi, butterflies and birdsong. Invisible birds move among the branches, hidden among pine needles, early leaf buds— sweet sweet sweet is their invitation to go deep, deep, deeper. Roots and rocks try to trip me. Or maybe they aren't trying to trip me up maybe they are trying to slow me down? Pay attention to where I place my boot; notice the earth beneath my feet, the way walking is falling into gravity's arms and catching myself again and again. Every step a trust fall— Just watch a baby taking their thousandth steps or ten thousandth. Still wobbly, still wondering whether they will end up sitting on a diapered bum in the middle of the kitchen and laughing— Falling is funny when you are close to the ground. Funny, yes, but more often frustrating— sometimes it's tears of anger, wanting so much the grace and ease of the big people: walking, running, jumping, dancing. But all they can do is wobble and fall. And here I am in the forest-blanket standing still now, searching the treetops for the invisible birds: goldfinch, I think. Or maybe chickadee? Or titmouse? My ears trying to tune themselves to the forest singers but still wobbly. Still unsure of themselves. I had forgotten how hard, how hard it is to learn a new skill. How embarrassing it is to fail again and again and again. But sunlight dapples through the trees and kisses my face kindly— My child, she seems to say, my child, she brushes wind fingers gently through the rustling leaves and through my hair, across my cheeks. She wraps me in stillness, holds me in communion, drinking deep the sacrament of blue lake water rippling through the trees and a pair of buffleheads stretching their wings, rising up out of the water, flashing black and white semaphore that I cannot decode but I suspect is a message of peace. Perhaps it is the start of a courtship a lifelong love that returns always to nest in the same place.
Forest Blanket
Version 2
I pull the blanket of forest around me. Wrap myself in pinesighs, smoothbark beechboles, showers of red mapleflowers, in rocks coated with luscious mosses, and fallen logs with fragile fungi brackets and lacy lichens, in flitting blue-white butterflies, in falling-down stone walls separating nowhere from nowhere, in babbling streamsong and birdsong. Invisibly birds move among the tree tops and in the understory, hidden among needleclusters, and budding branch screens—sweet sweet sweet is their invitation to go deep, deep, deeper. The path, familiar and strange, meanders, opens then closes before me. Roots and rocks reach, try to trip me. Or maybe they aren't? Maybe they are trying to slow me down? Pay attention to where I place my boots; notice the earth beneath my feet. The way walking is falling into gravity's arms and catching myself again and again. Every step a trust fall. —Just watch a baby taking her thousandth steps or ten thousandth. Still wobbly, still wondering whether she will end up sitting on her diapered bum in the middle of the kitchen and laughing— Falling is funny when you are close to the ground. Funny, yes, but more often frustrating— sometimes it's tears of anger, wanting so much the grace and ease of the big people: walking, running, jumping, dancing. But all she can do is wobble and fall, wobble and fall. And here I am, swaddled in the forest-blanket, standing still now, searching the treetops for the invisible birds: Goldfinch, I think. Or maybe black-capped chickadee? Or tufted titmouse? My ears trying to tune themselves to the forest singers but still wobbly. Still unsure of themselves. I had forgotten how hard, how hard it is to learn a new skill. How embarrassing it is to fail again and again and again. But sunlight dapples through the trees and kisses my face kindly— My child, she seems to say, my child. She brushes wind fingers gently through the rustling leaves and through my hair, across my cheeks. She wraps me in stillness, holds me in communion, drinking deep the sacrament of blue lake water rippling through the trees and a pair of buffleheads stretching their wings, rising up out of the water, flashing black and white semaphore that I cannot decode. Perhaps their wing-beat lovesong is the start of a courtship, a lifelong love that returns always to nest in the same place year after year.
This poem started out as an attempt at writing morning pages. But the first line I wrote told me it wanted to be a poem and so I ditched the morning pages and instead wrote the poem as it came to me.
The opening image comes from a beloved fleece throw-blanket that my sister-in-law gave me for Christmas 2024. One side is black with plants and mushrooms and little forest critters: foxes, deer, hedgehogs, squirrels, and blue birds. The other side is golden with white arabesques. This is my favorite blanket and I had just wrapped myself in it and taken a sip of my morning tea when I sat down to write. So literally I was wrapping myself in my forest blanket.
I was also thinking of a hike in our local state forest which I recently took with my youngest daughter. I think it’s the first hike we’ve taken that was just the two of us with none of my other kids.
There are two places where I go to be refreshed: the beach and the forest.
Ames Nowell State Park is one of those places our family has gone back to over and over again through the years since our kids were quite small. We’ve seen it in every season, in drought years and caterpillar years, in snow, in the heat of summer, and in autumn’s colors There’s something wonderful about having those places you know so well and you have watched change over time.
So this poem is also a love note to one particular patch of beloved forestland.
When I was reading over my initial draft, the first stanza seemed a little non-specific. Trees and shrubs… which trees and shrubs? So I rewrote it. And changed a few other things here and there.
And yet, while I like the specificity of the opening lines of the second version. When I re-read it, I began to wonder if they feel overwritten compared to the rest of the poem. There’s something about the simplicity of the first version that I like. Maybe it’s ok for them to be generic trees and shrubs?
I do think I prefer the ending of version 2. I cut the part about the message of peace— too much telling instead of showing— and let the courting buffleheads do the work for me.
But what do you think? Are the first two stanzas of the second version clearer or is it too much? Do the other changes work? Which version should I go with?
If you can, tell me in the comments why you prefer the version that you do. Which lines or images do you like?
I like your pair of buffleheads and their silent semaphore code.
They are both lovely. I vote for the second for these lines: "pinesighs, smoothbark beechboles, / showers of red mapleflowers, in rocks / coated with luscious mosses, and fallen / logs with fragile fungi brackets and lacy lichens..." drinking deep the sacramemt of blue is another of my favorite moments. Your attentiveness is well rewarded, my friend.