MY WOODS

I'm sitting out on the patio
On a chilly afternoon
Just before the sun disappears.

There's no breeze
And the wind chimes are silent.
Complete quiet.

I recognize this very silence.
It's from the woods of my childhood.

This bit of peace is all that holds back
My low, relentless, daily angst.
This sudden moment of relief tells me
“Go back to your woods.”

But, I know I can't do that.
The old “you can never go home” thing is all too true.
The woods I knew are gone.
Even if they are not cut and subdivided,
Forty years of just pure nature
Has wiped away my old trails
Along with the tree I recognized by it's bent.
It's all different now.

Fortunately, in the museum of my mind,
My woods remain completely intact.
Every trail and blade of grass
Stands just as I left it.
Memory has quietly groomed these woods.
Time has purged them of their thorns and thistles.
Now no chance whatsoever of being stung
Or coming upon a snake.
It never gets so late that I have to leave
Before the trails get too dark to navigate.
It's never cold and it only rains if I want it to.
And I never come upon a rotting animal carcass.

So, now my woods are better than ever.
I can wander their pristine trails through foggy dreams
And never have to be vigilant or disappointed.
No worry, the time or weather.
These woods are enshrined in beautiful myths.
A thousand stories told and untold.
These woods are more mine than they were then
And will only truly disappear
When I do.

But what if I could
Be buried there
To disappear in
And become
My woods?