Which Forest a poem from Christine Lowther

Which Forest?

 If my eyes are the colour of the sky, you said,

yours are the colour of the forest.

No one had ever said such a thing.

Which forest? I wondered.

The forest we stood up and lay down for?

The forest we went to court for?

The forest we were imprisoned for?

The forest that will maintain the current sea level

as long as we don’t log it –

the forest that will change with the climate,

shortening its name, dropping the rain,

cedar snags and tall spruce giving way

to arbutus, even garry oak?

By Christine Lowther:

Frog.
A tiny bright green frog
ringed by a collar of
golden light, sits peacefully
on the forest floor, ferns
move slightly in the soft
current of air, succulent
plumes shimmer, silver
droplets sprinkle down.
The frog lands on the ferns
delicate surface, stem bends
acting as a tense spring-board
for the frogs next mighty
leap.

Poem by Max Sloan, written in the Walbran Valley August 91. Photo of a Pacific Tree Frog.Thanks Max, wishing you could of made the Reunion.