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  • R.T.

The Yellow Wood whose Path is but One

“And to the forest edge you came one day…and looked and pondered long, but did not enter, though the wish was strong.”

--Robert Frost

I had entered into the woods and found myself turned around. Where I had come from was loud and busy; shrieking, the way back was, and yet I found myself drawn inward still. In neglect, I had suffered much from the darkened soul within my chest, the one that didn’t beat anymore though I was not dead.

Onto the boughs on either side of me my hands rested, gripping the feigning leaves that withdrew from my hot touch. And leaning against the black sap that leaked from the top of the trees, where, like a jungle canopy, the cold and ominous pines swayed violently, I thought of the pristine image printed onto my cortex with vibrant color.

These trees bled for us, but now that my body had submerged into their watery depths, my skin and my bones; the organs that began to fade in their life, were being sucked away from the edge where I could see you standing, looking in for any sign that I might still be there. The deafening roar of the creaking trunks droned you out and so I could not hear what it was you said—your voice traveled the opposite direction of me. Sadly, you could not hear me either.

And then you left, and I turned my head to see what horrors I had gotten myself in. But I was not shocked, surprised, or horrified at what I beheld, for there was luminescence like Spring when Spring is meant to arrive. Truly, all I could see was snow and not a single track left from animals harvesting what little could be found, but Springtime in its essence was about me, and the trunks, the boughs, and everything that I saw upon turning my head, was enough to tell me that vicissitude is only so until it isn’t.