Red Forrest

I have forgotten you:

The fine needle-strings
of a prickly symphony,
fragile crunch of fresh
snow underfoot,
The taste of clover,
The rough grains of bark
beneath my fingernails
from climbing
your skyscrapers.

You aren't a symphony anymore:
just a lone, old violin
hoarsely whining out
the last of its song
before the record ends.

I have forgotten you.