Katy Allen

In a Season of Browns

out of the car and into the woods,
walking a snowless early winter trail,
so many browns beneath the feet,
chestnut, umber, chocolate, tan,
of soil and fallen leaves and trees,
fresh or decaying, home to hidden life,
bugs and worms
and other crawly creatures

yet beside the feet and overhead
greens of pine and hemlock
even now grasping their cones of terracotta or cacao
and, surprisingly, ferns
holding onto their summer hue
alongside wintergreen, Princess pine—
not a pine at all but undeservedly named club moss

then, rounding a corner, coming upon a meandering stream,
water under cloudy winter sky not blue at all
but brown so deep it’s almost black,
espresso perhaps, or charcoal

when suddenly,
without warning,
beside a tree, solid gray,
but no,
more brown, maybe mocha or shitake

entering kodesh hakodashim, the holy of holies–
perhaps not yesterday,
but definitely today,
right now,
recognizable,
for within that space, the rising up of a deep yearning,
satiated only by the unbidden urge
to embrace, holding the tree tight,
connecting,
wanting never
to let go