This Poem was Submitted By: Dianna Recod Woodhams On Date: 2001-10-24 17:57:25 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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A Familiar Forest

        How many times can one get lost in the same familiar forest?               As my mind wanders from the safe confines of now,                beyond the clean, green lawn and fence of today,                        it follows faded footprints                             along a vague, sloping path.                                                       Downward,                                                              slowly at first                                                                     with a subtle                                                                           twist here                                                                    and there                                                            another turn                                                                   taking me                                                                        down.         I know the forest is there with its  w h i s p e r i n g  w i n d s               and shifting shadows.                     I hear the  h u s h e d  m u r m u r                                         of rustling rusted leaves.                   Creaking and cracking,                             the reaching branches are waving                                                             for                                                                me                                                                   to   come.                                     I start to stop,                                                   near                                                     not in the forest,                                                                   just to peek,                                                                             to peer                                                                into the dark jade                                                     almost living green shadows.                                  Every tree leans to greet me,                                glowering,                                   towering just                            over my bowing head.                    I know every tree,                      every bush                              and                                 v                                  i                                   n                                    e                                      each root                                          and t                                                   e n                                                        d                                                           r  i  l                                                                   that reaches out                                                                      to catch my passing feet                                                                              and slow                                                                      my pathetic progress to  .  .  . ?                                                   There is no ‘to’,                                              there is only  ‘through’  this                                                      groping,                                                   choking forest.                                      At least,                                         I hope there is.                   There are living things                                       that scurry behind,                                                         between,                                                    around the trunks                                                and thick bristling bushes.                                          I know there are more                                                                            dead                                                 that lie in wait                                            buried                                               beneath the blackness                                                       in rank,                                                              damp hidden places.                                    They will not stay dead,                                  for I am their resurrection.                                            I fear                                         finding them                                                    and facing their brutal rebirth.                             Oh, the weeping willow with shifting shapes                                          rising and reaching,                                          crying and calling.                    I can’t go                              beneath its s                                                n                                                    a                                                        k                                                       i                                                    n                                                 g                                               limbs                                                  to the                                                       writhing                                                             darkness                                                 where the dead things wait                                                     for my wild wailing                                                   to breathe life and pain                                                        into fetid lungs                                                    formed from my fears                                                                       and hate.  Where is my path?         Let me go back to my clean, green lawn with my        safe flower bed to lay my head on. Even the roses         with thorns on their stems are comforting pains       that prove I’m alive. Even though spiders spin webs       on my eyes, I choose to see them in amber sunshine.                          Give me today.                                       Tomorrow  my mind   will   wander.

Copyright © October 2001 Dianna Recod Woodhams

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