February 2018
For the longest time I have struggled with the idea of writing nature poetry. It seemed as though nature was its own poetry, and there was nothing more that I could add. The thought of trying was frightening. On the other hand, I have enjoyed reading nature poetry, so in the past year I've have been attempting to explore nature through my poetry; to express the ways in which nature speaks to me. More about me and my poetry can be found on my website: https://sylviacavanaugh.com/
Lost and Found
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood...
-Robert Frost
North woods winter and two
feet of deep, miles away from roads
and houses, our marriage diverged.
He couldn’t admit being lost in
fading light. I looked back to see a
path of overlapping tracks, my yellow
boots followed him into this wood.
First published in Highland Park Winter Muses Gallery
Evergreen
With fierce verticality
they rise from a soft snow-dusted
rust of needles
cold conifers whisper a green solace
embedded in winter’s solstice
these Spring days they tower
darkly in the path
of late afternoon light
while deciduous trees
breezily dapple
in suntime play
even in this verdant overflow
spruce, cedar, and pine
harbor snow dreams
remember when your grandfather
took you skipping
through the cemetery
after dinner
holding warm your hand
First published in Solitary Plover
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood...
-Robert Frost
North woods winter and two
feet of deep, miles away from roads
and houses, our marriage diverged.
He couldn’t admit being lost in
fading light. I looked back to see a
path of overlapping tracks, my yellow
boots followed him into this wood.
First published in Highland Park Winter Muses Gallery
Evergreen
With fierce verticality
they rise from a soft snow-dusted
rust of needles
cold conifers whisper a green solace
embedded in winter’s solstice
these Spring days they tower
darkly in the path
of late afternoon light
while deciduous trees
breezily dapple
in suntime play
even in this verdant overflow
spruce, cedar, and pine
harbor snow dreams
remember when your grandfather
took you skipping
through the cemetery
after dinner
holding warm your hand
First published in Solitary Plover
© 2018 Sylvia Cavanaugh
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