I was at a reading last night in which the author posed a question asking if the land speaks to you. It is amazing how much outside speaks to me! The following poem speaks of a time where the wilderness felt like home.
Home
Silence, my purposeful steps on the trail the only sound, meadow on one side, the river on the other. A small golden doe stands between me and the river, neck extended, ears propped at attention, assessing. Deciding I am a threat she lopes off. Stepping into the forest the breeze whispers through the trees. Grandfather Oak stretches his arms above me sheltering me with his strength. Looking up blue sky peeks through gnarled fingers splattered with green leaves. Tiny dragonflies perch on thin fingers of a lifeless arm, one, and then another, and another, until there are five, comfortable with my presence, watching my every move. The forest is beautiful here, the thin underbrush speckled with the suns' kiss. I dance through the trees with the wind and the sun, my arms in the air a grin on my face. I am home.
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