Hour Five, Place of meaning


I was not supposed to be there,
that place in the woods.
I went anyway,
reasoning that one
who walked softly
could not be a trespasser.

The path leading in could
easily be missed,
a barely seen comma
in a nearly unbroken green sentence.

The cool and dappled quiet
soothed my troubled teen soul,
and I followed the barely-there path
as it wound its meandering way
round a small pond’s edge.

The stiff, sharp spines of surrounding
reeds protected pristine water
lilies from my reaching hands
until I found a small break in the reeds
and waded my way into the shallows.

I stripped away my outer layers
until I lay naked in the sun,
a yearning Ophelia, unable to complete
my wish for oblivion deeper than sleep,
instead allowing a silence
that was not silent
to fill and heal
an aching teen’s troubled soul.

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