It isn't just the fading echoes
or galaxies festooned against
enameled night skies that
draws me to the wilderness.
It is the quiet composure of trees
after a passing storm has shorn
them of leaves and awakened
the lichen and mosses at their feet.
It is the way the spongy soil absorbs
my footfalls and the whispered
promise of an afterlife in the smell
of decomposing wood.
It is air is so rich in ozone that
every breath is like shedding skin,
and sound is muted by ferns
and grasses cascading over rocks.
When I want to wash away the dust
of commerce, I find a wilderness
and travel there without luggage,
without a watch, waiting for the rain.
Dr. Charles A Stone
Saturday, October 5, 2013
Topic(s) of this poem: forest,nature