The Word

we hurl through this tunnel of 
beeches and careless mulberries
green silence pressing you and me on all sides
my fingers drumming the steering wheel

what is the word for it 
trees that keep their dead leaves
dry papery offerings
to distract deer from eating their bark
in the hungry winter

I could rattle off the word
you could recite a poem by James Crews
we could talk about holding on to something
as light splinters the canopy
If I could remember the word
Beeches, Ernest Lawson“/ CC0 1.0

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