Poem

In the Woods

I tell you to be still in the summer sun—statue, oak, log that cannot 

be rolled. Be the thing I return to after all these years alone. Be brave 

and stolid. Be royal at last, silent, unruffled by wind, regal

as ostrich feathers, round as the globe. I want what I cannot have,

a woman of your proportions, given to light, soap-soft and adjusted

to whatever comes, silk or sandpaper. I sit in my recliner,

unnoticed by those who see the fire I start. The walls tell lies, discoveries

and doubts. My life is myth painted red in these woods. A forest 

can’t cover my back. Hounds track raccoons up my legs. 

I am eternal. I have lived at the end of my days, the end 

of the road, the conclusion of conversation, the final breath breathed

as the last word of my life. I have been a baby growing from a granite touch.

You were not the first to love me.

Joel Fry

*My first book of poetry is Late Alabama. It is available on Amazon. There is much wisdom there. Peace.