An unheard conversation |
Woods Words Years of the fallen pine needles underfoot-- a tree-to-tree carpet stretch across the forest floor. Branches scratch the sky-- that itch just beyond the cloud-- then relax into a canopy of seclusion. Further along, a clearing where ancient willow has pushed back against the straitlaced pines, giving its boughs room to dance. A knurled knee a helpful step to low flung branch that cries out for a cozy swing, but instead, becomes my cradle. Here, I can relax into the very me, without pretense of strength, where I can give in to tears or glories, where I can just breathe. No one to see inadequacy or frown at imagined cartwheels. No one here to listen to voiced fears or judge impractical fancy. The owl regards me with waist-coated dignity, having discerned I'm neither some tidbit for a snack, nor danger. My discourse merely ruffles his feathers--but he won't tell. Words spoken as if from well-worn pages. Chapters of them strung together in rambling sentences as a story springs forth to fall amongst the fallen leaves. The surrounding forest symphony but background music to the tales. But! Tis safe here, you see. For the trees will keep my secrets. |