Being outside

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.


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,
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,
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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