Adjacent
to the house and streets
of a little suburban village, Marble Cliff,
is a wilding of woods,
a black hole in space
circumvented by stars,
so improbable the dream
of its ancient forest.
The winter is starting.
Flurries darting in the air.
The numbness of cold fingers.
Canadian geese, an arrowhead of wings
just now passing in the sky,
as if part of that place
followed us home.
Its spirit sown in my grandsons,
and wife, and me,
Jackie, Michael, Mark and Mary.
What a huge soul its wilderness.
This house of trees coming back,
saved by the people around it.
A park, a home, a solitude,
whatever we need to save us,
letting us live.
Remembering in the whitening
of boughs and branches,
the leaves just fallen,
that its world can come back.
Comforting, peaceful,
forgiving our trespasses,
making us citizens of a deeper place,
paths leading to its heart.
The boys run ahead
while I follow, feeling its spirit,
welcoming myself and others,
who look longingly for a house like this,
to be alive with its intensity,
at the advent of winter,
discovery of a one true place,
which lets us belong.