Walking In The Dark
I learned to walk in the dark when I lived in the woods.
My space was beyond the big garden, in a clearing just beside the trees.
It was a tiny egg-shaped house,
complete with bed and space for books.
Here I learned to read by candle light
and to dress in the dark.
Here I learned of mullein
and tinctures good for blood.
And here I learned to get myself home
late at night after time spent with friends
down the road in the dark all alone
through the woods to my home.
Walking the dirt road was easy because it was so obvious,
but when I cut back to head down toward the clearing,
I had to make my way around the pathless garden
then through the woods.
Here my faithful trees stood sentinelling,
kind and brave, beckoning me home.
On the road the giant limber trees danced spirited wind songs.
On the road I danced and sang with them,
but these trees in the woods stood silent, watching.
I memorized their silhouettes;
Spoke to them, trusting.
I kept my eyes toward the sky,
for looking down held no clues for my journey,
only uneven blackness.
Their unfailing shapes and symbols lead me home.
I learned to walk in the dark while living in the woods
and the trees taught me to keep my head up
and my eyes open always to the sky.
Looking down only caused me to stumble
and fall in the dark, feeling very much a fool.