Backwood

How deep the woods went

and how far the trail

were not questions we needed to ask.

Light - sifted through needles

to cinnamon-bark paths -

told how deeply

silence overlaid the fern voices

of insect, mushroom

appearances of snail, the woodpecker

halting midrhythm as footfall

came close.

And the steepled trees

told how flawless

we were - our bodies taking up

that meaning of place, the opening of

senses

to veins of plants and listening roots

where we stood.

Returning through dream

or lost in a book intricate

with illustration, our child-bodies

remember and wait. We travel at the edge

of wilderness and wonder;

we enter a village in ancient trees

and listen for tokens of passage.

If we lie among pines

and rise with the spice-scent

of needles and dry moss,

we remember again

what's real in the memory

is what we have.