Something You Trip Over In The Woods

Because of this hope for survival
I may have to bury my chest
of books, under a giant redwood tree, hoping the stoic-time traveler
knows we weren’t all moles.

I may have to bury my chest of books
so the stoic time-traveller, cleanly shaven, can’t track my past
for my life isn’t about me
but my books.

So the stoic time-traveller, cleanly shaven, can’t track my past
because my name isn’t in
my books but
in his own collection.

Because my name isn’t in the beardless wildrye or
on the salmon breast of the western bluebird
but rather in his own collection—that was founded
by a letter, written by myself.

On the salmon breast of the western bluebird
I found myself best represented
by a letter, written by myself
under the trance of hunger.

“I found myself best represented
by the solitude I lived in.
Under the trance of hunger, however
I buried my books.”

By the solitude I lived in
the stoic time-traveller, with parted hair, searched for my past—
never huckleberry—and
I buried my books with haste.

The stoic time-traveller, sitting underneath my redwood tree, searched for my past—
So like the western bee, my chest kept my queens warm and
I buried my books with haste.
But I’ll return with the painted ladies.

Feedback Given: https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/7mn53q/short_sweet_love_poem/ https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/7mhst4/its_all_a_blur/