Thanksgiving in the Woods
This week I walked in silent, snowy woods,
Awoke before a glowing fire to gaze out at trees
Draped in elegant ermine and covered in diamonds,
And sang around a bonfire of primitive proportion,
While the children danced spider shadows around us.
Our fingers cold on the frets, our voices, smoke- husky,
Soothed by drinks frozen from their beds in the snow.
Music from years that live now only in our memories,
Dreams from youth now grown old as we.
This week I walked in silent, snowy woods,
And lifted my face to the cold lace
Embroidering the trees swaying over me,
And I took the hand of my child,
When he wondered about his life
And where it would lead.
Your heart will tell you the way, I said.
While the wind whipped away our voices
And stole the feeling from our fingers
And I listened to the silence in my soul.
A pond, milkwhite, invited.
He steped out eagerly and I wondered
As I timidly tossed pebbles on the surface
And searched for a strong stick
With which to save him, should he fall through,
If my heart still knows the way.
He called me, laughing, sliding,
And I tossed the stick aside and stepped out too.
And we slipped from one end to the other
He, jumping to test what the ice will bear,
I, thinking about what lies beneath.
This week I walked in silent, snowy woods,
And in the stillness of those hours,
In the quiet of that time
I try to hear again the beating of my heart. |
