Not Out Of The Woods (A Poem)

A shiver of leaves, not wind, I think. Or is it?
The dark mouth of the woods opens wider.
No path visible now, just the suggestion of one,
a deer trail maybe, grown over with fear.

It’s a damp smell, fear,
like the underside of a rock turned over,
worms wriggling.
Not death exactly, though that’s in the mix,
the quiet composting of what was.
More like… not knowing.

The blank page before the word,
the silence before the note.
And the wanting, always the wanting,
to fill it, to make some kind of music,
even if it’s just a grunt,
a cry against the weight of all this…nothing.

But wait. My hand, reaching out,
finds the rough bark of a tree.
Solid.
Not a ghost, not a trick of the light.
And the air,
though thick with the smell of wet earth,
also carries something else.
Pine needles, maybe.
And the faintest, almost gone,
scent of wild rose.
It’s enough. A start.
No grand pronouncements,
no heroic stance.
Just this: one foot in front of the other.
A breath.
Another.
The dark woods,
they’ll still be there.
But so will I.
For now.
And maybe, just maybe,
that’s enough.
SS 2/9/25