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The sky is an old shawl
of mumbling gray
resting on the rounded hills.
In the east, ancient trees
decompose in mist and moisture
that feeds wild mushrooms
along their rumpled trunks.
The campaign plods on.
Espousers spit turds,
sport tooth-cracking grins,
obscene innuendo,
outright lies,
in your face,
I’m talking here,
you shut up.
Out west, the fallen pines
unpack in corky chunks
on the dry forest floor.
They smell clean.
In the night forest,
a primeval rhythm
pulses with certainty.
John Ziegler is a poet and potter living in State College, PA.
