floor of hunter green moss
and mountain laurel
towering oak, old when the
earth was young
maple the color of wildfire
and ferns, shoulder high
the fuzzy tips of their tongues
curled in whispered sneer
A solitary beam of golden light
peers through a hole in gilded cotton sky
the color of slate,
reaching, like a lonely finger
through a tear in space and time
as if to spotlight my wanderlust
and transmit its findings
back to the mother ship.
The piercing sliver seers my retina
only to take cover in the ghostly mist
before it can be taken and held prisoner below.
I hear the crisp bark of a red fox
somewhere below, toward the valley
a she-fox, I deduce from the
from the cacophony of tiny yelps
that follow the initial snap.
A muted rustle of leaves
precedes, if only by moments,
the sudden shower of acorns
and impudent chitter of rebuke
from the tangle of heavy limbs
above my furrowed brow.
The chittering ends abruptly
when I presume acceptance
and join in laughter at the joke
only to be answered
by sounds of tiny, clawed scurrying feet.
I amble on,
ignoring the trusty compass
strapped to my wrist,
I travel by instinct to a place
far distant from whence I began;
a destination unknown to me
but felt with a yearning
that crowds that place
of obsession steadfastly defended
by lost sailors and woodsmen
in the cinema of my dreams.
A siren’s whisper promises
in echoes in my mind
that the place to which I journey
like love, will be known to me
when the final step is made.