a small dusk poem

I do not doubt that the old oaks speak.
Or that the biting dear wind
knows my cheek in particular.
Here in the dim gray dusk
the ground knows my knees,
and the white pine sentinels
are my unmetaphorical guard.

Merleau-Ponty writes
we know ourselves at the crossing of our worlds,
where one hand embraces the other.
outer meets inner-

But I know myself in the
body of the land, at the
edge of my skin. Or rather,
I forget myself
and am remembered.