The Western Wood

There’s an old tree that lies on the far edge of the Western Wood
And at the set, right before she takes her final adieu,
Light bursts through the tree’s honey-gold leaves,
As if grasping, for a few more seconds of being earth-bound
Before surrendering to the dark.
If you sit atop the nearby hill with your back to the sun,
You can witness the forest painted in tragic colors.
Decaying pumpkin-rind orange;
Trampled sunflower yellow.

I once wrote a letter to you, confessing my endless love.
But afraid,
Instead of an envelope, I placed it gently inside a tin box.
It sat nestled between the picture of you and I at the beach,
And the paper flower you made me once out of a gum wrapper
When you were bored in French class and couldn’t get my attention.
In that box I locked away my secret longing and desire.

It was a soft November afternoon, I carried my love to the wayward side of the forest
(My Father knew nothing of the trip;
Had he, a stiff scolding would‘ve been in order, seeing as I walked the entire length with bare feet.
Not the proper actions of a lady, I assure you.)
At the giant weathered tree
I dug a shallow grave beneath a soft spot in the roots,
And covered my secret once and for all.
The lock on my make-shift safe was ancient,
And when the box was nowhere to be seen,
I held the brass key in my dirt-tinged fingers.
It was heavy and light and cold.

Mother kept a cage full of doves in her solarium.
(She said it reminded her of some lost innocence or something;
It was one of the many quirks of hers I never fully understood.)
Gently I lifted one out, and cooing softly,
Steadied it enough to slip a noose around its foot.
Outside, away from the house, I whispered:
Fly away far my darling Dove,
And since you can’t hold me,
Carry with you all my love
I tossed her up.
Like that, my heart had flown away.
(Mother never noticed the missing Dove,
And soon, neither did I.)

Decades later, I sat rocking back and forth,
Watching our grandchildren playing in the sweet November afternoon air.
Then, out of nowhere, a head full of thick brown curls came bobbing in my direction!
(Her name was Delilah, at my request to my son, and she was the most curious and headstrong three year old I have ever laid eyes upon.)
She walked right up to me, slightly wobbly from a hard days toil in the grass and dirt,
And proudly placed her discovered treasure in my palm;
A brass key,
Heavy and light and cold.
Delilah kissed me on the cheek and I laughed harder than I had in years.

By dusk, the house was quiet and empty
And the two rocking-chairs on the porch swayed slightly.
I trekked, naked-footed, to the far side of the wood I once knew so well
The trail long untrodden in my mind never fully forgotten.

There it was,
The Secret-Keeper Tree.
(The name I used to call it in my dreams.)
I sat down, holding the Key of Desire in my dirt-tinged fingers once more.
The Earth felt like Rest.
I could feel you beneath me.
We talked like long-lost friends
Catching up with Time itself.
We breathed each other in.
And when I could laugh and cry and breath no more,
I slept and slept and slept,
In your arms I slept.
For good.
Light and heavy and warm,
Like I always had.
Like I had always belonged.

Reviews

[Inject Positivity]

Memories are always there with us, covering us, surrounding in all the possible ways. Your poem holds sweetness of love and memories that can never fade away in the hands of time... Beautiful write...