un­ti­tled 14

i miss the woods of my youth
and the en­chant­ments con­tained therein
ad­ven­ture and er­rantry fight­ing gods
and mon­sters with the self taught
wood­craft of an imag­i­na­tion
gone na­tive

i miss its stream and the
chuck­ling bub­ble of the craw­dads
nip­ping at my beagle’s paws
as she raced through the
rasp­ing reeds af­ter an­other
elu­sive scent 

i miss its dust and moss
the faded lichen and bur­docks
catch­ing and re­fus­ing to re­lease
the vi­tal youth laugh­ing his way
through the un­der­growth of
their mem­ory

i miss the woodpecker’s knock
and the chides of the squir­rel
whose for­ag­ing i rudely
in­ter­rupted while scal­ing
hick­o­ries and sycamores for a
bird­seye view 

i miss the call of my mother
echo­ing across my world and
call­ing me home. i miss ig­nor­ing
it for a last half hour
of a sum­mer evening’s
in­tre­pid pos­si­bil­i­ties

i miss com­ing home and strip­ping out­side
to have the mud sprayed off with a hose
a daily bap­tism back into civ­i­liza­tion
a child again un­til to­mor­row and the
next chap­ter in the life of a
grow­ing boy

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