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