Whose Woods These Are I Think I Know

Revisiting an old poem. Tonight was one of those strange times when I was reluctant to go inside. Between parking the car and walking to my apartment door, I could feel a youthful wanderlust tugging at me. I often complain about the cold of winter, but there's something about the solitude and the night and even the cold that was calling to me tonight.

I don't feel I can walk alone into the wee small hours of the morning nowadays, in part because crime, and in part because I keep binge-watching the X-files. These two things combine to make walking alone at night seems fraught with peril. But the city lights kept reflecting off the rainclouds tonight, so instead of walking, I re-worked this poem a little bit. Maybe some night I'll walk instead.



Walking Thoughts

I walk to sleep
and take my walking slow.

I used to walk more often
years ago.
Heartsick, I would wander uphill,
past the silent homes of strangers.

Now,
I lay in bed and think
of those star-filled nights,
with the moonlight on the snow,
and my heart
slowly
pumping
someone’s name.

Now,
I lay in bed
stretching the muscles and tendons of my legs.
For the most part,
I no longer yearn.
His name is in my blood
and he is warm beside me.
So often now,
I walk and tire in the walking.

But now and then,
on a December night,
I will glance upwards
and think of how the moonlight looked
when I walked alone in the snow
and I will miss the cold silence of it.
I will miss how the cold
and the stars
and the snow
and the moon
filled the walking places
in me.

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