Wild Wood for the soul
I don’t expect to see those delicate wild things
if I walk through the forest, thick with green and sunlight.
Those quiet timid souls of ours.
That make the forest sacred
stuffed full of life and joy.
The heart can be still because I know they are there.
My soul like a small perfect bird, bobbing in the tree
or a timid deer watching me, one foot raised, paused, poised, black eyes behind the dense branch.
I don’t expect my soul to come pounding on my cabin door,
I am here! Hear me! I have news!
Instead I might hear a thrush sing, pouring out it’s song for love of life,
or a twig snap.
I might hear a rustle and wonder if it’s the wind or bird or beast
and I’d open my door
find my boots and start to walk
not to see my bird
but just to listen.
Just to know that it is there,
in amongst the wild wood.