Walking with Rapture
I.
One night, I walked alone,
cocooned in the velvet darkness
of woods ringing
with survival songs.
I felt the soft thrum of hoofbeats
before I saw them, felt
the tingle of anticipation before,
before
I stopped
dead in my tracks,
my breath caught
in the net of my lungs
as brushes of tawny fur
swept my bare arms, a herd
of deer parting around me as
though I was Moses’ staff
held high.
I watched one of the does
leap away, a tail flash of white
like the flag of surrender.
She ran free or afraid,
we can always be both
and still manage to be home
with the herd.
II.
We dream walk through bird sanctuaries
our upturned faces burnished
in leaf-prints and memories
of flight.
I am learning to travel
light as the river-rushing
wind slips off
the garments of trees
because it is time
to let some things fall
to the ground and nourish
the wild darkness
at our feet.
III.
I stepped off
the path
and climbed
the proverbial
road less traveled,
at least, by me, anyway.
I never knew
what I’d find up
past the hemlocks
and redbuds,
the vines of honey
suckle and poison
ivy, up where the
breath of God
is something
we can taste
and slowly
become breath
ourselves, able
to move mountains.
IV.
Walking beside you
is like all
of the above.
You are
a sanctuary for
survival songs,
the woods to free
my wings, a gift
at the top
and thrumming
brushes with awe.
Jasmin Pittman is a writer and editor living in Asheville, North Carolina with her two children. She enjoys facilitating healing through creativity, imagination, and deep listening.
