A private retreat

Where did you go? Out. What did you do? Nothing.

The Child in the Woods

You go there, where the edge is
and peer into the deep, waiting
mystery. There is no why.
You step over the threshold
and the woods close behind you.
A bright red leaf on the trail
you pick it up and spin it in the dappled light
a long twig with a funny shape
you tap it on the ground, edge forward
with eyes closed, like
being blind
you stumble on a buried root, your eyes
fly open. Dust motes sparkle, catch
the sun. There is a stretch of mud
the hoofprint of a deer. You keep going
deeper into the mystery. A bird watches
from a branch, another cries overhead
you do not know their names, or care
a rock shaped like a heart—into the pocket!
a little rise, you clamber up
and see the view below, the houses far away
the earth tugs, you drop and tumble down
the grassy slope. A slender stream slips
through the trees right there.
You kneel to see if there are any fish
cold water clear enough to see each pebble
down below. Sun sparkles on ripples, so
dazzled and still you fall into light dancing on water
you disappear without a trace,
borne fifty years into the future
into a quiet study, lined with books
a table with a single sheet of paper
and this very pen, moving.
The sun weakens in the afternoon sky, the
shadows grow deeper and the air is cooling,
reluctantly you turn toward home
close the door gently, the woods have vanished
a clatter of dishes, supper is ready. In time for grace
you take your place.