two rotations have passed 

since i last tasted the northern woods. 

fuzzy time lingering, sitting in open faced  

Nova Crafts, itching to seek open lakes

and bogged down beaver streams, 

pious portages and harrowing rapids. 

i miss latching on

to the dirt that forever clings to the underside of my nails. 

i miss latching on

to the calluses that form between paddle worn finger joints.

i miss latching on

to the charcoal ash that cakes my clothing in obsidian.  

i miss latching on

to the woody smoke that lingers in my sallow curls. 

i miss latching on

to the embering of dried, sunscreen stained skin. 

i miss latching on

to the orchestra of mosquitoes that conducts at every dawn and dusk. 

though here in this plastic forest,

full of automated monsters, 

i find myself in a moonless night, 

only attempting, to latch on 

to every finger jam and overhang,

offered up freely by the grand granite wall 

of passing time.