Guest Poet Wayman E. Wisner
Walking through woods in Indiana
I am walking through
leaves and new grass and short weeds.
I am walking through woods
I have never seen before, yet know.
I walk beside a tall birch,
a sycamore, a white oak.
Beneath my feet, the crackle
and crunch of dead leaves.
The smells of the earth
rise up to greet my nose.
The flow of a creek slowly cuts
through its limestone bed.
Above, the sky is pale blue.
A turkry vulture and small clouds drift by.
A woodpecker and a fox squirrel
quarrel in a red oak.
I see may apples and trillium.
Ferns beside the creek.
A jack in the pulpit is ordained
but not yet burst into sermon.
I am walking through
leaves and new grass and short weeds.
I am walking through woods
I have never seen before, yet know.
I am walking with the slowed pace
of a late middle-aged man.
And yet,
I am walking through my childhood.
May, 2001
Wayman E. Wisner's Questions:
I have not written nor, in fact, read poetry in over thirty years.
So, what I am requesting in feedback is anything.
I have little way of judging where I am in the process.
So, hope you will find the time for a note.
It will be appreciated.
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