The Forest Critic
“The Forest Critic”
Deep in the woods,
off the main trail,
where the ferns lean in
like gossiping aunts,
I met a tree
with the face of a man
who did not seem impressed.
Not angry, exactly—
just… unconvinced.
As if I’d interrupted
a very long thought.
His brow,
a thick ridge of moss.
His eyes,
two dark caverns
that narrowed as I stepped closer.
One lip curled ever so slightly
into bark that had seen
too many hikers with fancy water bottles
and something to prove.
I stood still,
half expecting a speech—
something about
“you people”
and your trail mix wrappers.
But he just watched.
Judging my boots.
Scrutinizing my posture.
Raising an invisible eyebrow
at my camera like:
Ah yes,
another “poet” with a camera,
thinking the trees have been waiting for him.
I wanted to explain
that I was different—
that I stop to notice things,
translate stillness into stanzas,
say thank you to trees.
But he’d heard it all before.
So I nodded
the way you do
to a man who’s earned his frown
through decades of silence
and the slow erosion of bark.
Then I left him there,
muttering to the wind
and vetting the next soul
who dared to pass by
with open eyes
and questionable intentions.