Untitled Poem

The mind is a forest. Thoughts

are birds inhabiting the trees. They

call to each other, spreading messages,

making neural connections.

The forest is alive with activity. Little

things scurry to and fro on the forest

floor – intimations, insights, notions

almost too subtle to see except when

the sunlight piercing the forest canopy

happens to strike one.

Some parts of the forest are familiar –

their paths well-trodden, their denizens

well-known. Much visited, they remain

easy to access and ever bright.

Some are so faint they can barely be

seen even though I know they are there.

I would probably not see them at all if

I didn’t know they were there.

And some parts are dark and abandoned.

No paths lead to them anymore, so

overgrown and neglected are they,

though they may be stumbled upon

accidentally, as in dreams.

I am not in the forest, visiting now this

place, now that. I am the forest itself.