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| Image / Matheus Bertelli |
The Woods: A Prologue
In all my memories I am eight.
In spring, I walk past the boulders (no yelling)
piled at the edge of the back lawn, (no judgement)
out to the sinkhole filled with water,
inky with leaf tannins, to pretend
I was fishing; stick in hand (no baiting)
to flip the stacks of leaves at (no traps)
the bottom, pollywogs darting away.
In summer, years upon years of pine needles
cushioning the ground, (no slamming doors)
leading the way to a neighbor’s house; even
if I was off by a few minutes, (no slapping)
I still got out to the other side.
I was never lost.
In winter, the snowmobile tracks behind
the Cook’s trailer, curving in arcs through (no loneliness)
their property, ours, and the Holt’s. Miles
of mechanical doodling.
Once the ponds froze over, Stacy, Stephen
and I would skate, avoiding the dried clumps of grass
sticking up through the ice; coming in (no martyrdom)
only when we could no longer
feel our toes and the dusk
made it hard to see. (no shouting)
In the woods: freedom,
imagination, tools for important work. (no neglect)
Calming, predictable through the seasons
but surprising when a bird perched close, (no threats)
when a ladybug would land, when I saw
a piece of wood chewed by a porcupine. (no intentional
silence)
"The Woods: A Prologue" is from A Harmony in the Key of Trees: A Healing Myth (Dancing Girl Press).
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| Loralee Clark |
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