the commission of my forestry existence

It wouldn’t be unfathomable to think a forest with four perfect trees would be enough for one person to love and admire and need but my forest boasts desire of waterfall and winding paths and birds that sing in the dark with owl hoot or the stark trill of a some bird I don’t know the name of.

I need other trees.

You are the stream that winds through the woodland of me and I remember you said you collect things like twigs and sticks and other soulful bits.

You also told me that you are a sieve and when I noted this, I wanted to rummage through the second drawer of my kitchen, find my own purple colander and wear it on my head and say look man look these things make great hats too.

Or perhaps I only wanted you to copy me and upend your sieve, to cause your collected contents to fall.


Fill your thing with me.

I don’t want to be sifted through your holes nor be contained by drain.

I don’t want to share my ware with anyone.

No matter what you have been told.

People can use you for things that they need but I want you at home, in that place of our own, wherever that might be.

I know one day we all have to leave.

Maybe our walls are in a forest neither bushfire prone or dry.

Yet to burn from desire is not the way I would ever choose to die.

Given the opportunity to decide.

I would like to live on a hill looking out across a great sea.

We would share a view of mountains, fog rising to meet our lips in winter as we sip organic red whilst savouring the taste of each others mouths and kissing the best of our unsaid.

The sunshine of dawn creeping without doubt behind us, on our lazy mornings.

At night, as day descends, I want to hold your hand and sit with you on the verandah of our edge and watch things disappear and marvel at how fortunate I am because you are beside me and we made it this far.

If I lived with you, I would make our bed a comfortable stew of the best linen, pillows and coordinated love.

It would be delicious.

And I would eat you.

After breakfast, I wouldn’t need to invite you to walk through me.

Your discovery flag planted firmly within my soul distinguishes my safe trails and your bravery.

You know the way in.

You know the way out.

Your exploration of me is reminiscent of the greatest discoveries ever made.

I am your forest.

The less adventurous of men have always asked before tracing me and although their politeness is honourable and well mannered, it is all too slight for my expanse.

The landscape of me is deep.

I like the way you trek through my rocky parts with sure step.

I do think perhaps you sometimes forget that my thicket contains a dinky caravan gypsy with an arrow to aim and it hides behind the widest trunk of my tame.

This girl doesn’t mess around with a shot straight to the heart.

One swift hit dart is better than a miss, which only tears apart.

I learned as a sapling that things die and people lie and every minute is precious, so run if you don’t want to try, because we are all nearing the die of our life.

There is a fire edging around the perimeter of our death.

I don’t want to regret.

And I’m not ready to leave, not ever, not yet.

Sit on the fallen tree of my amble.

It rests against the creek of my cheek.

Kiss me there.

Be my echo if you dare.



If you venture far please let me know where you are.

This forest gets quiet and I understand you appreciate the silence but I am a noisy seed and I bang into growth of splendor when planted in good soil.

I am spoiled by confusion and the intrusion of rubbish.

Clean this mess up.

I’m no longer certain of the ways in which you care for me.

The drought of your mouth leaves me thirsty and wilting.

My existence, the dense and deepest part of me, is squat with love overgrowth and seemingly best left to flourish wild.

You penetrate beneath my ridge and can see beyond my inside.

My cave is dripping.

My forest is made for tripping.

I should be cultivated by the hands of someone is who isn’t afraid to fly like a fox from this end to that.

I don’t know how to straighten the bend of my lean.

The sun calls me toward it and the night allows me to beam.

Straighten me out.

My silver edged leaves are not deciduous and aren’t going anywhere but if I fall, the slow detrimental crack of my wood could be fatal.

Although, I know, against the earth, my lay would be a way to get from here to there, a gangplank for cold feet.

I am not ready to die.

Not yet, not without you by my side.

Ravage me with your blaze and burn away the confusing hedge of this maze.

Clear my boundaries.

Be proud that you have found me.

I don’t know what to do with you and these feelings.

Someone said to me yesterday, maybe it’s best just to pretend they’re dead.

Is that the choice I need to make, to understand my heart and my soul and my head?

To make sense of the itch of my dread.

I am tired of crying eye sap for the feast of sticky nosed bugs and intruders.

My grounds are sacred and protected by law.

There are signs everywhere, if you look and you are sure.

We are natures gift and born from one giant BOOM.

If you believe in the commission of my forestry existence, please hippie hug me like a tree and settle yourself against my persistence.

Save us.

© ryan

the commission of my forestry existence

PJ Ryan

Melbourne, Australia

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