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.