The Woods

Friends,

After an interminable time, I finally found myself in nature again. I was able to soak up as much of the wild as my body could handle- and it was the most delicious feeling. I also find myself writing here again after a too-long hiatus. Maybe writing is like my woods; maybe my creativity is inspired only by nature, and I must go back into the wild to find it again. Here, I share a writing that reflects the joy I find in the simple act of being outside:

~Finding the Woods Again~
By Poonam Desai

Yesterday, I walked through our woods,

And found our names carved into the river stones.

The pile of logs that housed our whispered conversations

Still stands home to the spiders and ants

We had long forgotten.

The pitcher we used to water our garden

Has since been reclaimed by the forest moss and vines.

Time is far slower in this grove of trees

And though we left years ago, it holds our magic yet.

Do you recall

When we played tag at the foot of the hill?

Huffing and puffing,

Not caring a whit about uphill or downhill?

Collapsing in the rough grass,

giggling and shrieking

As crickets leapt

Up around our heads in a wild

Circus of alarm.

There we traded leaves and wildflowers

Like precious stones and gems,

Eagerly pressing them between pages of

Dictionaries, accidentally harvesting

Them months later when we

Flipped our books open again in search of a new word.

There, in the woods, we counted the lines in each others’ irises,

Spelled out our names with sticks in the dirt,

And stared up at the tops of the trees,

Our necks arching back so far they hurt.

I found the enthralling sound of gravel being dusted

Off an old book, and you

Charted the hidden colors of the woods

In your father’s unused ledger.

We took food for the squirrels,

Befriended the beetles,

And learned to leave the dandelions alone-

For they were far prettier left untouched by

The breath of our wishes.

There, I stuck a sprig of honeysuckle in my hair, and you placed

a crown of weeds on your head,

We transformed into Lord and Lady of the Wild.

No past, no future

Only the fresh river mouth gurgling nearby

And the sun’s light piercing your hazel eye.

And here, now, I can feel the damp humidity of dusk,

The sting of mosquitos that sent us running home,

I can see the fireflies lighting our way

Back.

                                              (Petaluma, CA; Poonam Desai)