by Amy Paul

Created on: January 05, 2008

Up I go, into the wood.
The hill to the pasture,
Crags nuzzled in snow,
Slows the golden girl
beside me.

The woman, I wonder
Who knows these woods well,
Will see my faded footprints
In the quickening snow?

Up I go, into the wood.
Tall cedar and pine bend
Their aching backs,
suffering the weight of
The endless visitor.

Up I go, into the wood.
My golden girl catches a scent,
A pronged print entices;
Off she races,
Among and despite the crags.

Here I arrive, the edge of the wood,
A vast field framed by farm stone.
Golden girl senses
Eminent freedom, dashing
Flyng through snow-dust.

Peace and Magic,
Unknown except by me.

I exhale, crystal moisture framing my view.
My golden girl and I, the lucky ones
To stumble upon, again,
The sudden pleasure of the field forgotten.

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