I am returned to a place I know as well as the part in my hair or the tilted smile upon my face.
I have roamed as a creature in this vibrant, sun-scattered, patch of forest both as child and adult.
Here I had shorn spiny limbs for fortress.
Here I used the convenience of slick, chilly, mud as a sliding, racing, crude-tracked transport.
So that I might make it home to sup before the last light failed me.
Here is the land of my father and his father.
Here is the land of my father’s brothers and sister.
They are equal parts that make a whole.
The sun is cutthroat-sharp but not constant here.
No, it rather dances and remains unfixed.
Or so it seems, as the canopy leaves would have me tricked.
I grasp at furrowed, dusted, bark and also for their hallowed names.
Here I find Maple, and Dogwood, and Pine.
Here alongside them I inspect the wild vines.
They are dried and skeletal, withered veins.
Yet, if cut to their center they are still fluid with green vitality.
Here over the difficult, soft, muddy lip of our deepest hollow you can find the Ash trees.
Here some are narrow, slender, and reach up in crooked pivots.
Here others are so stout your arms could not fully embrace them.
They say it is that which holds up the world, and here I want to believe it so.
As I climb back up again to the crest, I feel that I am leaving something behind.
I do not know if this pleases me or wounds me.
Here as I walk the path back to civilization as I know it, the wind riots through the trees.
At my back and all around me the leaves dance with vivacious applause that bids I return again.
Here as I reach the hot, grimy, asphalt and return to the rest of the world I already know,
Here I shall return.
About the Author
WILLIAM REXROAD's interests in writing range through multiple genres within fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry. He places a high value on creative emotional expression and the ability to choose one's words wisely. Rexroad never passes on a chance to better his ability as a writer in any way.