In the woods, walking slow–a sort-of poem

I always put disclaimers before I post my “poetry.” This is particularly true when I post one of my “poems” just after posting a piece by someone who really can write poetry. (If you haven’t read high school Tyler Jackson’s “Beloved,” please follow the link and do so.)

I am working on (or at least processing) several blog posts right now, a couple of which will be in the confessional living series, but as none of them is fully formed, I am instead sharing my creative-ish ramblings on walking in the woods, which I love to do no matter what the season, what the weather.

In the Woods, Walking Slow

Birds sound out—I imagine they are sharing the news,

The weather forecast, the society page.

One last note, and there is unusual silence,

Deep, weighty.

Perhaps even ominous.

I stop, too—the better to sense the wolf of Grimm’s dark tale—

scan the trees, then laugh at myself.

Another birdcall, and my eyes follow the sound, sliding up dark trunks

To trace the branches black against the darkening sky.

Dusk is here.

I step further,

seeing less, listening more,

hearing the Spirit’s whisper:

“I am here.”

The Holy hangs in the air around me,

In the Joy of the birds, the Mystery of the imagination, the Beauty of the branch-laced sky

God IS—Big and Real.

In the woods

I practice stillness

And know.


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