One warm summer day

I descended into the woods.

Wild raspberries lined the path,

Rock-hard, and bright red, like the color

Of blood on a thorn.

The high-pitched whine of mosquitoes

Almost sent me back inside

But instead I stayed and stared in awe.

The air was still

Except for the occasional breeze

That rocked the tree branches up high.

Mud shifted slightly with every step

But I pressed on

To the skeletal campsite.

There, a circle of pebbles and rocks

Ensnaring the white ashes

Of a long-dead campfire

Vegetation was cleared away

And in my mind I could still see

The large blue tent we had camped in.

Beyond, though: wave after wave

Of grass and plant and tree trunk

And a half-hidden path to the creek

The path led me face-first

Into an air-thin silk spiderweb

And again I wanted to return inside

But still I stayed.

On, past the deserted canoe

Half-hidden by vines

Until I finally arrived.

The creek was swollen by the rains,

But the gentle murmur of the water

Reminded me of a not-so-distant past

When this wild place had felt like it was mine


Alright I admit it. For the next several months, my poetry will likely be the result of an assignment from my poetry writing class. I’ve got one or two ideas for a poem that I might have time to write later, but for now, I’ll stick to what I have.

The assignment for this particular poem was a simple one: describe, in depth, an object or action; each line had to be less than ten syllables long. (Note: yes, I can count. If you are interested enough to actually check the syllable count, there were one or two lines that went over, but 98% should follow the prompt.)

Interestingly enough, description has long been an issue of mine. I’ve been told by various readers that I need to add some more umph to my painting-of-the-scene. Whether or not this poem has enough description to give you a sense of place… well, I’ll have to leave that answer up to you.


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