Woodland Spirit

Poem No. 224

On a recent trip to the city I was moving down a sidewalk, ruminating on mundanities, when I came upon a pair of tiny birds pecking at the concrete. The first flew a few feet away as I approached, and resumed their pecking. But the second cocked their head to one side, looked me in the eye, puffed their feathers out, planted their tiny feet, and whistled right at me.

Their defiance brought me to a complete standstill in the busy stream of pedestrians, and the bird’s call evaporated my ruminations, returning me abruptly and unceremoniously to myself. To the present moment and the living world, which is, of course, where our actual lives are always happening.

Into the soul silence created by our encounter, I heard someone speak the first lines of today’s poem. (I can only assume it was the bird — they had a poet’s eyes.)

---

---

Untitled

Tell me of the last
woodland spirit you met,
of a forest sprite

burning with life,
or a hatchling bird
born with the knowledge

of how to sing your name.
On which recent day
did you remember to whisper

an old secret to the wind?
On which night did you stand
in the glimmering dark

and share your newest tears 
with the rain?
Tell me you have not forgotten

how to speak the nameless thing.
Swear to me you still know
that the storm and forest path,

the sea and the endless, open plains,
are your true
and only home.

---

---

After delivering the beginning of this poem to me (and, apparently, calling me out for not spending enough time in nature), the tiny, bold bird did not flit off into a nearby tree and let me pass. Instead it was I who dipped my head respectfully to them, stepped wide around their substantial personal space, and hurried off to find paper and pen.

I hope today’s poem finds you well,
~ A

---

If you enjoyed this poem, please like, share, comment, and/or subscribe, all of which help to promote my work:

Or, for just $1, you can always:

---