Boundaries

Hi!

I have a poem for you.

Where I am When I am Where I Was

Sometimes, when I am in the woods
and I have separated myself from 
the group just enough for the
illusion of being alone,
I will leave the trail
and make a loop around the tree
with the no trespassing sign.

Sometimes, when I am in the woods
and the only human sound
is my breath and my boots
shifting soil at a steady clip,
I forget the synthetic reality
beyond the forest border
and allow myself to become
confused in my identity–
becoming part of the whole– 
until the doppler waves of a truck
breaks the illusion
and I am myself alone again.

Sometimes, when I am in the woods 
and the trail I am following
is overgrown with knee high
grass sprouting despite deep shadows,
I pretend that I am a deer
as I frolic from toe leap
to toe leap.

Sometimes, when I am in the woods
and the pulse of a creek is
percussing against stone,
shuffling around leaf and stick, and
carving itself permanently into the crust
of the planet,
I find the boundaries between 
my stinking socked feet and
the cool potential of 
mountain spring water
is too great to maintain.
Afterwards, I will bask my bare feet
on a sunlit rock
in order to prevent
blistering.

Sometimes, when I am in the woods
and the sun is close enough to 
rising that everything is set
in a filter of blue light,
I wake up wanting for the
flavor of burning pinewood.
Also, bacon popping on cast iron.
And too bitter coffee 
from a kettle over blue flame,
perfection as the first scalding sips
penetrate my tongue as the beams of sun
first pierce the morning leaves.

In wordy wordiness,

Walter