This is a poem simply about appreciating the sensual experience of opening up to nature and letting it surround you, definitely Autumn nature to. Hearing it, seeing it, smelling it, feeling it… but perhaps not tasting it! There’s also that other strange, undefinable sense that comes from being somewhere quiet… somewhere serene and organic. It’s a feeling you get, a safe one. Certainly deserving of being some kind of sixth sense.
Cyan dragonflies pierce the air
like flying needles of the forest.
On a shoulder of mine
one pauses to rest a weary wing.
My finger reaches to welcome
but is abandoned by the insect,
unwilling to be batted to blood.
Weaving wind gifts leaves to my feet
and rasping rain dampens my hair.
The green grass embraces my shoes,
following me through it’s home.
I don’t wish to lay on the woods’ floor
so I side-step the liquefying brown.
It wants me to come nose-to-nose,
with my face touching the stone.
Climbing, I am pricked by pine needles.
I would have them simmered to tea,
had I a flask of hot water on hand,
bubbling away their mischievous spirit.
Cone fists fall as I grab for them,
whilst those sharp fingers mock and point.
I shake, and they find themselves
well and truly, beneath me.
My footsteps are percussion,
an undertone to the orchestra.
Inclusive to my wilderness soundtrack,
the woodwind birdsong calls from the nest.
Thunder rumbles to replace the bass,
and rainfall contributes to ambiance.
No chime, no flute, no drum,
can match my symphony of the wild.
I am undirected, mistaken as lost.
I wander without a destination,
but not without a purpose.
And such a purpose?
Free will, simply.