Not sure when it began, this growing
ache for woods although daily I drive
between patches of scrub oaks and
pines that do well in sandy soil.

Faintly, I hear the woods that sang
at night on the winds of childhood,
soughing outside my bedroom windows
every season, even in winter when snow

linked the trees like their wandering
network of roots. Many days I followed
deer prints in the creek, or animal paths
in and out of thorny tangles.

The Great North Woods haunted my
dreams, and I entered them, seeking
again the little cottage whose windows
welcomed me with candles—who waited

for me to open the door to a fire in the
hearth, a pot of hot soup, and a gentle dog
whose paws trembled as it chased dream
rabbits among the shivering pines.


From A Prayer the Body Makes (Kelsay Books, 2020).
Used here with permission.