The Woodland
I peeked out from behind a tall pine
Like a wood spook
In my purple coat
I hoped you would see me
*
A wolf cried in the distance
Somewhere in the woodland
Testing its bones in the cool river
I heard the howl drift
Told myself don’t walk upstream
*
Not heeding my own warning
I wandered in between the trees
Among the yawning leaves
Lost sight of where I’d been
Your arms of love became arms of darkness
Hallucinations of comfort
*
Something flew overhead
A hawk? A falcon? A crane?
Migrating south for winter
I watched it through time
But did not heed
Until the woodland spell broke
And the message became clear
*
Fly high, go south
See the forest for the trees
Write poetry in winter
One verse at a time
Quietly praise
The bleakest branches
Like a forgotten song
You once knew
*
I keep the woodland in my pocket
There’s a lovely restraint to this Susan, and the way the woodland isn’t just a setting but a state you move through and come back from altered.
I really felt that moment where love blurs into darkness, not as drama, but as disorientation. The spell doesn’t break with noise or revelation, just with a quiet instruction: fly high, go south. That turn toward winter, toward writing slowly and praising what looks bare, feels gently earned.
Thank you for sharing something so attentive and quietly wise.
A lovely ode to the romantic beauty and danger of the forest