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.
Learn more about this author, Amy Paul.
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