Paul Cézanne

The tender violet-white 
of the small flowers smudges
my feet, knee-deep
in the evening,
and the lushness as though it is a vivid
post-impressionist painting, say Interior of a Forest.
Paul Cézanne.
There is this burnt
scent of Greek philosophy in it.

Stillness licks the trees, and me
like a gigantic beast; I can almost hear the rustling 
of the sap of the trees,
and the whisper of the curious leaves. The summer slowly
inhales the dazed spores of the sun,
exhaling a tired sigh
like an aged babysitter finally able
to do her duty for the day.

A diligent woodpecker searches for an old tree
to sit and typewrite
an urgent report
to God.  I touch a touch-me-not near
my feet. It opens 
and closes its leaves slowly like a soft dissent.
I finally sit cross-legged 
in the forest floor like a boxwood bush submerged
in the din 
and bustle of the eighth continent.