More of a jounal entery

written in a close cramped office on lunch break.




I want the woods right now.
I want the hollow silence
That does not push it's self on you
As this world does.

I want to be that barefoot girl
stepping slowly and lightly
Like a little Indian,
Like a little deer,
Through the stubby pines and undergrowth.

I want to run to the great woods
And stand amidst the ferns,
With those tall, tall, trees about me.

And the sunlight shinning down in dull patches shifting like some great kaleidoscope at the wind gently stirring the trees inch by inch, but never heard.

I want the quiet of the deep woods that waits,
That does not ask,
That waits if you want to speak.
That lets you dwell and decide
That is never impatient while you find the words you want,
That you decide.

The quiet that couldn't care less
and is not offended if you say nothing at all.
If you lay a hand on a eroding tree trunk
covered in moss as if in greeting
it is only for your own benefit.
The woods never asks of you anything
But it will take it calmly and serenely
Because it is what you want.

It is there to be imposed upon
But never imposes.
It waits but does not wish,
It is welcoming but is somehow unchanged or disturbed by your presence.
It lets you view it
And somehow you know it lets you.
But never says a word.

I hear the call for such stillness,
For such peace that does not take
But to clear your head of worries.

I want that place that is nothing but the air
and the sun on my back
and the calm that knows nothing
of war or explosions

except of course to say -
"I understand dear one, . . . I understand."