A Voice In The Woods Salem Hills Park - Poem by Daniel Brick
Whose woods these are I think I know....
These woods are not meant
for you, although you lay claim
to them. 'Perhaps they are mine, '
you are thinking, but I am here,
guardian of the woods, to interrupt
that thinking in your confused mind:
meaning is not the issue. Nothing
you can call forth from the depths
of your serpentine mind, coiling
around thoughts like its prey,
squeezing their life out, nothing
from that dark place has meaning
for things thriving in these woods.
I see you walking, stumbling really
along these paths, your head bowed,
your mind burning. Look up! Look out
at these from your distance: patches
of trees alternate with snowy fields.
Nature is reduced to two colors, black
and white, and silence. And what are you
but a shadow, passing by and then away?
The next time you enter these woods,
you will not hear me. I will have merged
with bark and root, slipped into the pores
of rocks, disappeared into the flight
of birds. Heed me now: listen, watch, wait.
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