The Wood

 

The Wood

 

His feet carry him into the wood,

As they had yesterday,

As they had so often and again.

He did not know what had been lost,

He did not know if it would be found again.

Fairie glamour, or dream, or both,

That guide his steps,

To carry him

Into the wood.

Here he may catch a passing scent,

Or a glimmer just past the eye,

And faint laughter mischievous,

Though something less than petty.

Here he had found…

Something…

Someone…

For a day perhaps,

Or many nights,

So unclear why he drifts

Into the wood.

 

Daily she watches,

He wanders these days,

Lost to her,

Or to himself.

Once she caught his eye,

And still he catches hers,

Most days at least,

When she sees him,

When he remains in town,

And has not yet stumbled

Into the wood.

She knows not what he seeks,

As he does not know,

But her heart is certain

He will find more than he needs,

In her eyes,

In her arms,

In a life that is theirs,

Where she is now.

Or at the very least,

Where he wanders,

And so she will follow,

And perhaps find him,

And they will find healing,

Somewhere,

As they lose themselves,

Into the wood.

 

Cliff Lake 4/26/2024

Copyright © Clifford Lake 2024