I need to escape to the woods
Surround myself with aromas sweet
The groan of pine bending in the wind
Gurgle of creeks bubbling by
Soft loam underfoot kicking up its musty scent
I take a seat between the ferns
The ground is soft and damp beneath me
The crunch of small twigs I didn't see
So much life in these woods
I wrap my arms around me knees
And close my eyes
There is a language that is spoken
You can only hear if you are patient
The foliage begins whispering as the breeze tickles it
Trees have guttural complaints as they moan and pop
Complaining to each other of old age and bygone eras
Saplings chirp back and forth about their vigor and youth
Prickling the bark of old madrone
Even the wind has its own language
It dances playfully amongst the leaves
Rustling them and caressing them as they fall
The wind winds its way like a snake
Between the blades of grass
Occasionally creating squeals and chirps
Then it finds the creek where it pulls waters hair like an adolescent boy
It stretches water over rocks
Bubbling and boiling over sticks and trunks that the wind has pushed in
Yes,
Of all the languages spoken the wind is the oldest and most juvenile
The winds whispers carry a multitude of languages on its tongue
Gained through centuries of play
As I sit here between the ferns I wish I could speak these languages
Maybe one day.
YOU ARE READING
Ink & Tears
PoetryThis is a collection of poems that I have written about my struggles with depression, anxiety, love, nature, and the darker aspect of the world that seems to always hammer on my heart. I hope this reaches some of you.