An ode to Mother Nature; poems that take their inspiration from the great outdoors.
I return with nothing. Not stag, not silence, not even the echo of wings. My hands ache from grasping air. The bow hangs hollow,
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzalesabout a year ago in Poets
The trap lies waiting, woven of vine and thorn, baited with hunger itself. I watch as the shadows shift, and something enters—
At the forest’s edge he stands— a stag antlered with flame, shadows clothed around his body like armor, like smoke. No breath stirs in the trees.
The forest does not wait to be entered. It leans forward, a green-breathed presence pressing against my skin, guiding my step deeper
The lantern stands where roads converge, its flame the heart, its glow the surge. It has no master, wears no chain, yet lights the lost through night and rain.
The lantern waits at the forest’s edge, a star in glass, a trembling pledge. Its flame is small, yet steady, deep— a secret fire the shadows keep.
The masks fall softly, one by one, like petals loosed when bloom is done. No thunder breaks, no lightning rends, just quiet air where silence bends.
Sitting in the sun. Air that moves and brings the calm. Slow, take the moment.
By Rachael Anraabout a year ago in Poets
The orchard wears a crown of bloom, each branch a veil, each flower a plume. White petals drift like falling snow, but what they hide, the roots still know.
Beneath the soil, the chamber breathes, a silent choir of buried leaves. Roots entwine like hidden hands, veins of shadow beneath the land.
The river wears a mirror’s face, a shifting mask, a silver trace. It shows the sky, it shows the trees, it shows the wind that bends the reeds.
The forest lifts its mask of green and gold, layer upon layer, fold over fold. Each leaf a shimmer, each shadow a seam, a shifting face in a half-lit dream.
