I didn’t realize
how long it had been,
until I saw the bathwater
turn dull gray–
almost opaque–
against his legs
pumping joyfully
just to hear the water splash
I didn’t realize
how long it had been,
until I heard the geese
calling overhead.
While the trees arced
a lattice across the sky
and my skin burned
with the silence
I didn’t notice
the build up of noise,
of nervous thought, of
the imprint of humanity
on my mind
Until the forest
began to wash it away.
Phoebe Cook is a poet and mother of four. She grew up exploring the wilderness of Utah and then studied Environmental Humanities at Brigham Young University. After completing her studies, Phoebe and her family traded the mountains of the west for the forests of the midwest. Phoebe now seeks to put into practice the philosophies of stewardship and conservation that she learned in college by taking baby steps toward reducing waste, biking and walking more, and learning the names of plants, animals, and bugs near her house. To read more of her poetry, follow her on Instagram: @phoeb.cook.
