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Backwood

How deep the woods went

and how far the trail

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were not questions we needed to ask.

Light - sifted through needles

to cinnamon-bark paths -

told how deeply

silence overlaid the fern voices

of insect, mushroom

appearances of snail, the woodpecker

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halting midrhythm as footfall

came close.

And the steepled trees

told how flawless

we were - our bodies taking up

that meaning of place, the opening of

senses

to veins of plants and listening roots

where we stood.

Returning through dream

or lost in a book intricate

with illustration, our child-bodies

remember and wait. We travel at the edge

of wilderness and wonder;

we enter a village in ancient trees

and listen for tokens of passage.

If we lie among pines

and rise with the spice-scent

of needles and dry moss,

we remember again

what's real in the memory

is what we have.