The Journey.
A quenched fragrance
Is all that’s left
Of the mist. That once
Flooded the woods-of pine and cedar.
Like a crowd on the street.
She was silent yet warm.
Fervent yet tender.
Nor for once did she speak…
Not to the petunias;
Guarding the gates of the woods;
Who inquired the council she sought.
(For the woods are old and wise
And they; be it breeze or gale;
Would come seeking answers.)
Not to the old trail; covered
With pale threads of pine so thick,
One could not feel the ground below;
That she sometimes took and
Sometimes swept away from.
Not to the golden tress
That imbued through all
That it touch, however
Weak enough to be devoured
And extinguished.
Across she came, a raucous creek
At a yonder from the broken tree,
Riveted to one who survived last season’s storm.
And dew drops bound obediently
To the blades of the grass.
Across she came such generous bounties.
Lastly she sighed, in relief…
She knew she was lost
For she had found the old battered cottage.
Quickly she gulped the entire thing…
Cracked stone walls, olive green roof,
Creaking door, silent chimney; a mysterious hoof;
That ran towards the cottage.
She rested then…listening to the
Soft violin played inside the cottage.
Then she rested…
