I Miss My Woods

I miss my woods.

I miss getting lost to the world in them.

I miss the anonymity they bestowed upon me, the namelessness...

I miss the absence of judgment among the trees and low-growing things...the things that crept across the ground, unnoticed, unremarkable in their own anonymity…

I miss the silence. Profound. Deafening in its stillness. Pure. Even despite the noise that tried to insinuate itself from “out there,” it was complete as only it was able to be complete. Because that noise “out there” can never mesh with the music audible only there…the notes never look right upon the page...never sound right...

The music of the wind in the trees...sighing...soughing...whispering...moaning softly...of tree boles touching, embracing, swaying together, crying out in their ecstasy…of a tired one tipping too far, snapping, coming to rest finally but not completely. Never completely. For nothing in there ever dies...not completely...

I miss my woods.

I miss the pre-spring lack of color, the browns and grays set against what will soon be green...not long now...not long at all...against the low blue sky...against clouds just brushing past...low, white, faultless…

I miss my woods.

That place where nothing tainted, defiled, infected...made ill...pronounced finality...for there IS no finality there...among the low-growing and creeping things whose lives continue endlessly renewed, reawakened, rejuvenated, recreated...but always different if only slightly from what came before…

I miss my woods.

I miss the place where I could forget “out there...” where it never quite reached me albeit how short my time there was...how few minutes my feet tamped the still-winter-damp ground as I went...no destination in mind...none needed...the place being all that mattered.

I miss my woods.

March 16, 2020