When I roam the real forest
grumpy apple trees spit their spoiled rotten children on
my shoulders knowing I will collect them
and mash their cores into cider.
Their leaves refuse to form shadows nor shade me, letting
the sun scorch my monk’s crown deep cardinal red.
The weeping willows shed snickers not tears.
The oaks refuse their goodness
and discernment, all their wisdom.
Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out “bitch coming!”
Yet, I shade the thing I love
even as they shout out, “Go away, away.
Go home. Go home now.”
Still, my little Pomchi girl knowing forest from the trees
bows down to pee, bends backwards to poop
in full glory of all the angry, angry leaves.
The Mary Oliver poem mimicked here can be read at: