IN THE DEPTHS OF THE WOODS
In the depths of the woods, in twilight and shade,
with silence’s secret, wedded in moss,
sentences rest. With a beckoning calm
I pass by whispering trees in my stride.
They lean together, untouched by malice.
They lean. The wind in the crowns is singing.
It hushes. What suddenly is it concealing?
Fleeting, a night-long, wakeful moment,
speak to me slowly through solitude.
In spirit I search for the remnants of longing,
I gather the marbles – droplets of dew,
fallen – as though some unknown hand
had spilled them carelessly into the grass
and left them there. Forgotten? In haste?
Immutable, maybe forever enduring,
long cooled from the fever of anger,
memories hardened, akin to stone,
I bury them deep in the moss, mute the voices.
Forgive the cruelty? One day… perhaps.
Through the dark vault of the sheltering trees
a star might glimmer. And I walk home.
Author: Veron
