Songs of the March Woods

High in the cottonwood branches the tiny gray tree frogs unseen are singing.

You follow the song one pond after another deeper and deeper into the

March woods and when you finally find the place you sit down and listen for

a long time as the song falls on you like rain before, alas, the chorus goes still.

So you sit then in the stillness listening in the space the song left, waiting,

and there you hear the small mysterious sounds of little things growing,

pushing up thru the old leaves where the water holds the sky.


About wrensong

I am a poet who collects stones. I am a wanderer of creek beds and forests, canyons and high desert who, coming home, sometimes finds words to tell the story. I am a companion with others in the search for Deep, Wild Soul. I shape containers in time and space for others to come together to write, to tell their stories, to hold each other in the telling. I am a grandmother and the companion of a cat named Alaya. I often travel out into open country with a man who calls himself Dunewalker who has hung his hammock in my heart.
This entry was posted in A River of Stones, Nature, Poetry, Small Stones, Spring, The River, Uncategorized and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Songs of the March Woods

  1. I have been stressed and tired and so empty for so long I’ve been running on nothing. I have no creativity at all. But reading this, I felt a flicker of life deep within my heart; you know that kind of fluttering, trembling you feel when you suddenly make a connection. I still feel really ugh but something has rekindled inside me. Thank you for your words. Thank you for the healing. Thank you for starting inspiration within me once again. Forever grateful – Freyaxxx

  2. The last line is my favorite way to see the sky – reflecting in the water. 🙂

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