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M a r y   B u c h i n g e r









I love the forest of you,

how dark it is and bewildering.


In you, wolves and mushrooms,

spiders, moss, trillium, scat,


branches to climb and to break

into kindling—the danger of you


is me searching. Storm and sweep

the long-needled pine, bow low


to my fireweed, open into a silver

glade where a woman can suffer


the respect of tall inhabited grasses,

the nods of turning nomad leaves.

copyright 2014 by Mary Buchinger

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