You Can’t Go Home Again

While I was gone, the cutters came

to my beloved wood.

Nothing since has been the same,

the evil or the good.

In that wood I hid myself,

an elf in evergreen,

whose conversations, self to elf,

came sharp and clear and lean.

Sharper still, the cutter’s skill

has stolen half a heart

and left a barren, bleeding hill,

a mind/soul sawn apart.

Give me back my wooded glen,

my mystery, my face!

I never meant to leave again

that haunting, holy place.

Susan Harrell Mitchell, Edgewood

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