Holidaying In Chimney Woods

These woods are like a mother putting all embers out. Sweet wind winnows me out of all secret worries. As I dip myself into the woody stream, tension termites disappear. Throats of birds broadcast unceasing songs like our FM station. When a tribesman squeezes a honey-comb, I ride my tongue up the palm. My mind convalesces slowly here under the foliage. Fireflies fly out through the windows of my skull. Fresh thoughts are cooked in the seclusion of the woods. Shoots of dreams reappear, breaking the dried pods of my memory. I see the fossils of a paradise, which we had lost under the past. First printed in Poetry Nook Magazine, US.