The Stories We Hold

~Deana J. Tavares

Atop a mountain 

Called Wilson 

I am home

This dampened forest sanctuary 

Holds me snugly

Within this garment 

Of flesh

Blood 

And bone 

Granite echoes 

Mossy pillows 

The greenest 

Gold

Memories 

Morsels of life 

Contemporary

And foregone    

Worlds  

Cloaked within 

Green brown hues 

Pine pheromones 

Trail my every step

Around the next 

Birch bend 

A knowingness 

Of what’s next 

Music travels 

Within solidified

Knotted roots

Then lingers 

Upon tender winds

Traveling paths 

Where my soul knows

I’ve been 

Soil dusted hands

Collect minerals  

Of aspirations past 

Along for the ride 

Once again 

To be cast

The universe contained

In glimmers

Of forest light

Erupting

Between appendages 

Unveiling everything

In sight 

The Barred Owl 

Grants

A rare glimpse 

Of her downy face

Expansive eyes 

That know mine 

We share the silence

Embraced

Within the golden hour

Past fiddleheads

Hearts  

Feather-like 

Rhododendrons 

Mt Laurel clusters  

Wearied feet

Descending

Into the night

Reflections

Captured upon water 

Undulating

Musical scores 

Intermingling 

Shadow and light 

Sambas  

Sympathetically lured

Wrapping this thickened bark 

Around pine

Birch 

Oaks so bold 

Comforting us both 

From the stories

We hold  

©️2024