Each step crunches twigs
I'm self-conscious,
guilty almost,
as though they were
bird bones
On the edge, between
forest and clearing.
The trees grow quiet
and still when I come.
Hold their breath,
wait for me to leave,
to continue their
whispered conversations.
It is a great, dark lung,
breathing imperceptibly,
soundlessly and windlessly,
drawing me in,
expelling me,
rhythmically
The bright, open clearing
is near; it welcomes me.
But the tangled,
mysterious forest
invites me.
8 comments :
ahhhh, very nice.
I could just about smell the green.
You are a good writer!
Thank you!
FOrgive me but I'm not sure if you posted it only or wrote it!
It is beautiful to me and resonates with my soul. Nice work James I like your style!
Aunt Jane
Yes, I wrote it, and thank you very much for your enthusiastic response. It does me no end of good.
Very talented indeed!
Tom
Let me chime in here late in the game, but this is very nice! I didn't know you were a poet, you ol' dog!
This reminds me a bit of Theodore Roethke, specifically the nature poems. Like this one: http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cuttings-later/
Cheers!
-Jerod
What a compliment! It literally suffuses me with pleasure to have my writing thought to even hint at Roethke.
Cool link too. I'll have to spend some time there at poemhunter.
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