How many springtimes forgotten gone
since I old man have walked the woods
awash in early springtime bloom?
But when I was just a boy, a bare-slip-of,
every Saturday spring day morning
when dawn tap tapped at my window glass
I was straightaway fast up and out-of-bed
slipping thru that casement window
for the freedom found in the far – wild – woods.
No mother father sister brother
saw me go in secret silence, nor friend
went with nor dog nosed my heel then ran ahead.
Oh no, I went alone! For the solitary solace
found in dirt – and leaves – and flowers – and fern.
Some mornings I stayed late, long past noon,
till punishing hunger drove me home
to their disapproving eyes
at my aimless shiftless ways.
Now that mother and father are dead
and brothers and sisters are gone, long gone,
what would I give — what wouldn’t I give —
to walk those solitary woods again,
exhilarate to the thrill of wild spring flowers
followed by their disapproving frowns
knowing now what I did not know then:
that their silent masks of stubborn sternness
hid a heart of puzzled love.
R. Neal Peterson
revised 17 March 2010 and 2010.1006 and 16 Sept. 2014
dashed off in 60 minutes on 25 April 2008