POETRY
Nostalgia Calling
A September writing prompts response in free verse
My father used to take me to the woods.
We’d find deer paths to follow, tree stands
to climb, creeks to cross and sometimes
old bones. It seems lifetimes ago.
A few weeks ago, something putrid
wafted to me on the breeze. It took days
to discover the decaying opossum,
writhing with insect life, decomposition,
curled just inside the treeline.
A few days passed and somehow,
the skull, picked clean, rested
atop a stump. Who carried it there?
It’s been a mystery.
I have examined its features; gaping
eye sockets, that familiar bony line
of the jaw, canines, incisors, molars.
I placed it back on the stump like
a derelict lawn ornament. Each time it
catches my eye, I am perplexed by
a wave of comfort, tranquility, a deep
spiritual connection to the land.
Nostalgia calls mysteriously, I muse.
