Lightwood Mountain

Another phase is entered,
a deep meadow,
where black snake and wren writhe
in ancient nature’s struggle,

There are few fences,
but the black trunks of maples,
no defined borders,
but the blue rim of unmarked time.

Understanding slows,
and experience widens,
across the sunny lap
of Lightwood’s little-touched haven.

My old dog sought
such a place to rest and die,
but in my human world
there were few good hiding places.

So I gently cupped her head
guiding her safely into a pretend crevasse,
but not sheltering her
from my real dripping tears.

Now she’s run away her last time,
run and rolled her last in grass.
Listening for the beat of her heart,
I roam the dark woods of my memory.

© Brenneman T. October 28, 2004