Spirits

Sam Kearley

There are spirits hidden thinly in the forest don’t you know,

Weaving wistful as the wind rolls off the Cumberland plateau.

Their lights make quick excursion through the partly open doors,
Onto maps of wrinkled faces, over scratched up wooden floors.

Yet often we’re distracted from the language of their games,

Only trees whose speech is slow enough have patience for their names.

See worn down worlds are waited on by soft and subtle things,

Like dust that hangs from windows, rising smoke on quiet wings.

And maybe as we wither and our wrinkles start to show,

We’ll see etchings of these spirits from the Cumberland plateau.