Lost

A poem partially stolen from Sam Aureli

Photo by Leslie Cross on Unsplash

The wind carries the forest chatter —
creaking branches, tumbling leaves.
The aging white birch, papery skin 
unfolding, leans close and whispers,
“Where are you going?” I’ve roamed 
the poplars and spruces

and wandered the wars and the truces,
but now I seem to be lost,
at a loss, in the wilds of patience,
waiting and watching as I walk
across the piano keys
of changing light and shade,

cautiously continuing this way
and that, hoping to stumble
upon some kind of epiphany
of soft familiarity,
like a pillow for my thoughts
or a path for my feet.

Instead, the woods end at the ocean
and the sands of sifting time
wait for the rolling wave of a storm
to turn a new page in this book,
a blank page inviting me
to rewrite my story.

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Lost In the Woods