out of the woods

A poem about a final expression of love.

These woods, I cannot move them, so I visit them at the end,
Praying that as it seeks salvation, my soul might seek a friend.
It trails through the wildflowers and curls about the trees
To trace the trademarked artwork of veering bumblebees;
It pats the heads of drooping leaves beneath the mourning rain,
As clouds above wail out the weight of water they contain.
Between the spruce and chestnut oak my mourners they do come,
Moles etching out an epitaph whilst deer beat at the drum,
The foxes beg God’s mercy and the mice lay their bouquet,
The trout they paint their dapples black whilst squirrels kneel to pray.
The badgers don their Sunday best, owls cry not hoo? but why?,
The magpie takes the pulpit, asking "Why do good creatures die?
Are they not God's creatures?" (the hedgehogs bristle, fuming)
"Like me all souls are black and white, yet most deserve not dooming.
No soul laments mortality when what they lose is mortal breath
Let us call it but adventure for those souls approaching death.
As friends now brought together to profess our love through grieving
Let us stay our falling tears: this soul is wandering, not leaving."
Upon hearing nature’s eulogy, the fear within me quells
I feel a pull to wider climes and hear the rising swells.
The river’s stream shall carry me from mud to silt to sand,
The sea shall hear my last confession, and wave me to His land.