Saturday, April 3, 2010

A Pouch of Seeds

My shadow reminds my soul that as a young teen it lived in the woods and fields. The pouch I slung over my shoulder caught up seeds and stones, cones and dreams. I invented a rolling gate I called the mile-eater, which I used on old dirt roads at dusk, hungry and afraid of the dark. My hat and my stick had a pact to fence my heart and hold my head together when the light was too beautiful or the trees bid me disperse and fly up into them like a drunken swarm of bees. I was filled to bursting with linden leaves and emptied by the distant calls of crows, like respiration. Striding between the landlocked sycamores, the portal to my principality, a young mage caught in the tidal flow of my own longings.

4 comments:

Pagan Sphinx said...

It's strange and I can't explain it but your writing here reminds me of Herman Hesse. Perhaps not altogether in style but of what you were able to capture in words of your connection to the natural world.

I really enjoyed this.

giggles said...

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah, to be young again.........

susan said...

You are such a Romantic! You help to give me hope that the best in us will prevail.

Pagan Sphinx said...

I thought I noticed a link up for a new post but now it is gone. It looked like a nice painting, too. Hope you all are well.