I am an old growth forest
unrazed and hummocked
waiting for my brash explorer
to vanish beyond the hush
of untamed borders
a compass wielding professional
you nose along my ridges
and nuzzle into musky plush meadows
wandering, at home
no need to leave before dusk
you make camp below clitoral conifers
topo map, GPS, and aerial photograph
all navigational skill
is meaningless
when you’re in no rush
to stop humming with the refrain
of my warbling song thrush
I’ll take it as a compliment
that you spend your life wandering lost
in my contours, climbing with arboreal ardor
you plunge headfirst into the lush
warmth of my backcountry brush

Arbor Elliott’s poems are inspired by backpacking through untrammeled lands. Ey can be found napping in mossy forest spots or on sunny tundra. Arbor gets lost in the woods and likes it.