Saturday, January 19, 2013

Walk in the Winter-woods

Maybe it’s the hush as it traces dappled spaces
Dripping from lofty and bare-naked limb
Or the meekness of nonchalant hemlock fingers
Strumming the hour in a reverent hymn

Maybe it’s the absence of mortal creation
In this sanctuary, not made with hands
Where winnowing winds murmur kind, tender mercies
Softening duty’s despotic demands

The nuthatch flits from its tree-hole safe-haven
The language of leaf-song has slipped to the earth
Yet the breeze slides through the turrets of summer
Teasing the silence with evergreen mirth

Maybe it’s the absence of primal persuasion
Here, in the off-spring of Eden’s paradise
There is no clamoring intimidation
Where century-shaped pillars reach to the skies

What is it about a walk in the woodlands?
This beautiful garden bereft of cruel strife
Where shoulders, care-weighted upon our arrival
Are no longer bent beneath burdens of life

Time charts its discourse of four-season struggle
The woods are a glorious four-season reprieve
And perhaps we all would remain carefree children
If we wandered through the woodlands every eve

© Janet Martin


  1. `nonchalant hemlock fingers' - yet another example of your exquisite writing.

  2. Sara, thank-you:) You are always so very kind.


Thank-you for stopping by my porch! I hope you were blessed!