If I knew the muddy water
was going to find its way into my
hiking boots, soaking my socks
making my toes wonder if
life forms were circling them
maybe getting ready to bite them
I might have stayed home
missed seeing the sudden cloudburst
of snowflakes big as quarters
dabbing the forest bark white
painting the air above the lake
so thick, all land on the other side
disappeared with my complaints
inviting me to feel the giant roots of
of a warm brown tree reaching out to me
like arms coming out of earth
calling me in to see
the brightest greens I’ve ever seen
all around its devout unwavering base
lichen illuminated, incandescence
born of wetness into blossoms, grasses
a garden glowing as though many suns
were worshipping it
the altar of the trail, speaking for the
fog and inconvenience, telling me
there will always be a bounty waiting
around the bend of my disenchantment
is a retired school psychologist who was raised in New York City, and now lives in a forest in Pennsylvania. Since third grade, she has been a poet. In the mid-1990s, she wrote poetry in her spare time, and had some poems accepted in Pudding, Plainsongs, The Pegasus Review, and others. While working with struggling children and families, Susan’s hobbies had to be gentle on her mind and heart, so she made quilts, jewelry, and rock sculptures. In some ways, she is still recovering from dealing with so much sadness for so long.
Since she returned to writing poetry last year, more than 100 of her poems have been accepted for publication by Across the Margin, The Avalon Literary Review, Ekstasis, Feminine Collective, Gastropoda, Invisible City, Litbreak Magazine, Military Experience & the Arts, Persimmon Tree, Vita Poetica, and others.
