the fireplace corner shouts out to me a walking stick the root of a tree found under a wetland canopy its bark is silver gray the pine stave bids me weather the wind drubbing urgent deadlines - cannot find the boxed-in child with the outdoor mind i miss me while so confined leans up against the red brick wall all knotty and gnarled a forest's nod awakens a rustle only the woods can sigh or slide so far behind without my staff im a prisoner here by the work-a-day, the pay-the-bill scare but ripped from the mossy soil bed the walking stick reroots my head 4.4 10/9 © Brian Peter Hodgkinson
The Root Of A Tree
18
Apr