Is there a place where nothing is seen,
where nothing inspires,
where only the passing of time marks the place?
I take that question with me when I go into the fields and woods of the flatlands and the forests of the Northwoods. There must be something of memories to be found. The reason for going is to discover with my senses, the loamy, decaying pungent smells, the touching of the seasons, a visual game of hide and seek.
Anticipated but hidden,
giving an awareness for why.
I know to look but I’m reminded by the finding that there is more yet to be found. I know that when I’m with nature I will succumb, lulled to drift through my emotions, wondering where I will be when awakened.
Of all that is expected,
nothing but this