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by fyn
Rated: E · Poetry · Biographical · #2279369
An unheard conversation
Woods Words

Years of the fallen
pine needles underfoot--
a tree-to-tree carpet
stretch across the forest floor.

Branches scratch the sky--
that itch just beyond the cloud--
then relax into a canopy
of seclusion.

Further along, a clearing
where ancient willow has pushed
back against the straitlaced pines,
giving its boughs room to dance.

A knurled knee a helpful step
to low flung branch that cries
out for a cozy swing, but instead,
becomes my cradle.

Here, I can relax into the very me,
without pretense of strength, where
I can give in to tears or glories,
where I can just breathe.

No one to see inadequacy
or frown at imagined cartwheels.
No one here to listen to voiced fears
or judge impractical fancy.

The owl regards me with waist-coated dignity,
having discerned I'm neither some tidbit
for a snack, nor danger. My discourse merely
ruffles his feathers--but he won't tell.

Words spoken as if from well-worn pages.
Chapters of them strung together in rambling
sentences as a story springs forth
to fall amongst the fallen leaves.

The surrounding forest symphony
but background music to the tales.
But! Tis safe here, you see.
For the trees will keep my secrets.

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