My lover returns from her walks
happy and smelling unmistakably 
of sex.

I know for a fact
that she is not meeting up with another 
human soul, it’s not that.

But I’ve seen the way she stares out 
at the forest through 
our bedroom window.

The way the wild cherries wave at her
like runaway brides, the way the birches 
caress her with their overreaching branches.

I once watched her sling her arms around 
an oak’s trunk, unguarded
in a way she never will or would be with me.

I’ve seen the way she sighs and sinks into the peat moss, 
her silence swept up in the flood of bird noise
which understands everything, asks for nothing.

She returns home to me with leaves in her hair,
her cheeks flushed,
always satisfied, serene.

Meanwhile I chop our firewood, stoke the log 
burner and understand, as the smoke gets in my eyes,
that she will never truly be mine.