(When I was in middle school, my parents owned a little house in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania. We went there to get away when we were able, and I spent hours wandering in the woods, writing poetry and picking up orange salamanders...)
the path
is spongy
beneath my feet
from morning dew
moisture enclosed
by walls and a
ceiling of trees
housing the dawn
it's as if I
crossed a threshold
between
here and there
a field of dreams
and an ordinary
backyard
or
an antique wardrobe
that opens out
onto
a snowy pathway
in the woods
but it's not winter here
the trees whisper
their greeting
a chipmunk says
"good morning"
I sit on a rock
brush my hand
over the carpet
of moss
catching a salamander
organe and soft
its tiny claws
bearing no weight
on my hand
I dip my toes
in iced water
flowing over
slick, mossy stones
fishes darting away
from my giant feet
distrubing their
morning routine
it is quiet
still
a world innocent
and fresh
a place
to believe again
in new beginnings
in goodness
and a God
who keeps it all
together
it is here
as a child
I became a poet
a connosseur of beauty
where I learned
to meditate
before I'd heard
the concept
it is here
among the salamanders
chipmunks
and feet-numbing brooks
that I learned
to worship
sing silent praise
to the morning
and
be
whole.
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