Haagen is as Haagen Dazs

Talk is cheap—indoors at least
Where parlors beg for conversation:
A penny for your thoughts–
Many throw in their two cents,
But outside on the forest path
Where I am your free audience
As the crickets play their violins
And all the trees clap their hands,
In this public, private setting
Words become worth more than pictures.

So we abandon our houses and head to the sylvan city
With skyscrapers that scratch the sky with their leafy claws
And the London fog rolls in.
The luna lupus, queen of wolves, shines down,
Though even she prefers to shroud herself.
The forest holds us in its clenched fist
So tight I can’t see through the cracks in the fingers.
You become invisible, but for the crackling of the dead leaves
And the sound of your voice
Quietly breathing from your lips,
Blowing a wisp of cloud away, extinguishing the darkness–
Light filters down, slowly

Slowly
The woods expand:
Vision restored, but diminished.
The wooded wonderland, the color of antiquity
Is such contrast to the youthful silhouette beside me,
So perfect you could put it in a painting

Painting by Joris van der Haagen