Come winter the woods will forget my boots,
Expunge my passage, deny me familiar,
As if I never traveled there, climbed there
The oaks, as low birches lurch among
The poisons – ivy and sumac.
And how is it that the sun finds blockage
There, but not the muting snow, unbroken
Over the bones of child summer,
Not the muting snow gathering stones
Of light, shattered there and shadowless?
It is not my place, the woods come winter.
It is not lush and ticked. The common trails
Are gone then, and only hare paths remain,
Run as panic not bliss, among the creaked
Groans and white forbiddance.
Image: Alisa Anton on Unsplash
Devon, an entrancing, wintery penning whose cold metaphors go deep into one’s bones. One of your best… !!
Thank you kind sir. I appreciate your reading and commenting. I remember, as a child, getting lost in a very familiar woods after a snowfall. Since then, no way. D
You’re sincerely welcome, Devon. Woods canvassed by snow can be quite intimidating, especially to a child.
You got that right!