The Wood

Today’s poem generated by the memories of childhood: trekking beyond our cornfield to the clearance in the woods to camp out. It was a thrill to sleep in the woods and even though it was so close to home and the neighboring golf course, it still felt tucked away. My childhood was spent at that creek’s edge, slipping through the water barefoot and drinking in the adventure of the wood. It was either play outside or read a book for us kids. I am grateful every day for that kind of upbringing.

 

Tell me, moon,

about the time

you stood watch

over the wood,

my cheek set firm

on the rusted cot,

my toes curled in

to socks thicker

then the night sky,

wrapped

in a sleeping bag

that didn’t keep out

the cold.

 

Show me, sweet moon,

the memory of fire’s remnants

softly speaking

outside my tent,

every motion

from the trees:

another reason

to feel fright,

another breath caught

in my throat.

 

What of it, moon:

the crinkling of the creek

as the morning glow

lifted the chill,

giving life to the bird

and the gurgling

ribbit ribbit

from the mud

accompanying their song.

 

Hello to you, sun.

Can you show me

the once-way I stepped

five toes at a time

on the slick green moss,

the shawls of the earth

hugged upon each stone

caught in the water’s

flow?

 

Sun. Oh, sun.

You must remember well

the tadpoles slipping

between my fingers

and the dampness

of springtime bark

filling my nostrils–

 

you must remember

the cluck of golfballs

from the course beyond

the trees,

shouts from the green

tumbling into my world.

 

Oh moon. Oh Sun.

Each passing day

takes me

away;

from that ten minute trek

to a campsite

with her creek,

a fallen, blistering fire pit

that accompanied

a restless sleep–

each passing day

takes me away

into a reverie

brought on

by you.

 

walking in woods

 

 

 

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