The ghosts of the forest keep forgetting my name

What is the name of my reflection?
I can’t remember why my legs feel like
Ghosts with blocks of gold for limbs.
It’s only the winter I guess,
The one that has frozen my shadow
To the backs of my knees,
And washed the street free of dogs
That littered the walkways,
Scattered like leaves.

I try to talk to the names plastered
Against the train car’s window.
They don’t like the light,
So I’ll keep the lamp dimmed.

I remember the Sunday mornings
Under the green cathedrals of leaves
In the Forest of Brocéliande,
Whirring fragments of broken light
Falling across my outstretched fingers,
Reaching for resplendent rhododendrons
Of russet regality,
Or poised to strike the handsome haunch
Of a roe hart.

Nature will out.
We cannot change what we are.
Isn’t that comforting, in a way?