The forest smells like peppermint
and wraps me inside its Christmas hug;
are those clouds? or the sea?—
Does it matter?

The world spins
and I spend
so much effort dashing the other way.
Frantic flailing sort of running
the kind that finds me
farther back
from whence I came.

It’s queer, is it not
that I get the farthest
when I am the stillest—
and the world takes me with it.

Are those clouds? or the sea?—

does it matter?