Lost

Your hand was so cold it could have reached up from the grave when you stumbled over a root from an ancient oak and flailed out for mine, almost bringing me down. As you held onto me your eyes crackled with fear primordial as the forest floor’s green ooze, and I wished I could see your face clearly again, spattered with broken moonlight through the leafy cover before we left the trail and fog folded its wispy arms around the trees we had carefully barked on our way out, not realizing we would be trying to make our return through the gray country of the blind. For hours we stumbled through these trees and brambles and into a brook until there was light in what must have been east, and the scent of morning bacon at the camp, and like wild beasts we followed it until we were met with cheers and jeers and were home and slept the day away snug in our tent, and when we awoke came the thought, there must be a moral to this, but to find it would mean to go searching again and not snuggle closer, so we held each other and slept some more, got up, drove home and went with the flow— you’re lost, you’re found, then do it again— like the sound of children chanting, the endless cycle of life.

Bluejay

Veteran of old My Poetry Forum before its hiatus. Happy to be back.

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