“A Dryad’s Daydream, Essence of Oak”.
by Helga Ross.
Fall, a walk
in the woods, alone,
birds heard in the tall timber,
seen winging, a good feeling.
A drift of foliage
leaves limbs bare—
the wind blows a kiss
as if it knows I’m there.
Warmed by the cold breath
the sun sighs,
a tramp of the damp earth.
Squirrels scurry the furrows,
the crush of curled leaves.
Steps these same feet, hide n’ seek,
once scampered beneath
these same trees—
a frolicking kid’s fun runs
when we were fearless and young.
Among ground colours become
quilt covers my grandmother
might’ve patterned—a patch in which
I see me in sepia,
on umber my match,
her ochred old picture.
She existed, proof stored in a drawer;
still exists, because I recall.
Did I exist for these trees before?
Do oaks growing old
hold trunks of memories?
Or, hardwood as hardware—tree-rings
careless, (unless I care)
except for life?—the only living things,
these, shared the same slice.
What does it mean that no one sees,
remembers this, but me?
What will it mean when I’m not here to see?
And because I care, spared,
when I won’t know these trees aren’t there?
© Helga Ross 2008
*Featured in All About the Hearts Group
Featured in A Fractal Energy Passion
Featured nin Flame Apophysis 11/20/2011*