The Private Life of Debris —David Axelrod
We sat shoulder to shoulder in the forest,
brushing away debris—
the cast-offs, the derelict and bereft
clinging to the concave caps and false gills
of chanterelles we picked in day-long
twilight pooled under spruce and fir.
The refuse piled up between us
on that flat stone—yellow cottonwood leaves,
red maple, ninebark, threads of horsehair
lichen, pine needles, and kinnikinnick,
desiccated whortleberries, and spider mites.
That solitude was all I wished to abide by
and live inside of with her,
that moment aglow with October sun,
the mud frozen in the trail packhorses
passed along overburdened
and wary, their driver unaware of us
sitting nearby, under the trees.
And the quiet just beyond the moment—
a slow accretion of slough drifting down
from the canopy over 10,000 years to settle
into our hair, onto our clothes, and our lives,
as negligible as any,
whether we deserve them or not,
and for the time being only.
We carried our bounty home, our baskets
heavy the whole way, passing over
the surface of things, unnoticed,
into sunlight and out.