Where the order of things,
randomly organized in cycles is
imperceptible through the passing of time or within a fraction of time
Where everything begins and everything ends seen or unseen.
I enter this timeless space belonging to it but also an intruder
a naive observer
measurable and predictable
yet also impetuously unpremeditated
Something wild in the woods and
perhaps something wild in me
makes me long and belong, seen or unseen
Perhaps in my mother’s eyes I saw
the woods reflected
Or perhaps in the stories told
and I keep longing for that place
In all of humanity
Myrna Miranda O’Neill
Woodbury
This poem was written for the Verse-Village celebration of April Poetry Month.
