Forests

For Valentine’s Day, Marty wrote Abby a sonnet.

“Our breath is drawn together like the flames
of two candles, laid low in the same wind,
like forest shadows knit by dawn’s taming
slant-skied braid. I think this when the window
gives me sun enough to see you, veiled by hair
as softly fragrant as the moss that peeks
between the roots of two twinning trees. And there,
where your eyes meet the day, as sweet and quick
as every forest pool that tries to get,
for its quick life, a piece of blue inside
of it, I find a place to rest my eyes.
I set myself beside the curving hollow
carved by your neck and clavicle, against
you, nesting love safe as a forest bough.”

Abby said, “I’m glad to see that you love the forest so much.”
“That poem was about how much I love you,” said Marty.
“Oh yeah? Because it didn’t sound like that to me. So you compare me to a forest bough, do you?”
“Yeah.”
"Yeah, a whole shitload of similes. And a simile, as you know,” the bitterness that Abby conveyed in “as you know” is not to be conveyed by any simile ever like or as’d on heaven or earth, “such as ‘a man as strong as a lion’ commonly contains a quality ‘e.g. strong’ and two objects, one of which is compared to the other. Let’s call the two objects, the similee ‘e.g. a man’ and the similer, ‘e.g. a lion.’ Everyone knows that the similer is more qualitied than the similee.”
“Huh?”
“If you say my hair is as softly fragrant as moss that peeks between the roots of two twinning trees, you’re saying that moss is what’s really fragrant. Fucking moss! So I’m really fucking glad that you think moss is so fucking soft and fragrant. I thought you loved me.”
“I do,” protested Marty.
“So why do you think fucking moss is more fragrant than my hair?”
“I don’t! You’re wrong. The similer isn’t always more qualitied than the similee.”
“Oh, so you’d say, for example, that the bird took wing with the grace of an Obama.”
“Yes, I would.”
“Yeah, I bet you would."
“Fine, I’ll write you another poem,” said Marty.

“Two candles, laid low by the same wind,
come as close to meeting as our breath. Sometimes
when I’m in the forest for no reason, I see the roots
veiled by moss—it’s as softly fragrant as your hair. I observe
the forest pools, trying to get a piece of sky as blue as your eyes in them; the pools are
sweet and quick like your eyes when your eyes
happen to be open, so that works, I guess. A forest bough
holds a nest as safely as you hold love between your neck and clavicle.
I set myself against a tree, bark as bitchy as you.”

Abby said, “I fucking hate Valentine’s Day like cold death.”
Marty said, “I fucking hate cold death like Valentine’s Day.”

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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden, and WiL Whitlark of The Real McJesus. This week's theme: 'Forests'.