These are my woods.
In spring, these woods beckon to me. I leave housekeeping, planting, and writing, and walk alone through my woods. I can feel the presence of those who have gone before. I think ancient people walked my woods. They were welcome.
In these woods is a small, natural chapel. Pines bent by ice storms form arches over a deep bed of straw. A trickling spring interrupts the palpable hush. Surely the wild things growing here have waited, their beauty unnoticed for ages.
Paths through these woods lead to a gravel road, which leads to town. No one coming from town would be able to find the outlet, the access to the paths; a charming privacy. There are no sounds except the ones God created; a calming quiet.
I go to these woods when they call to me, when housekeeping, planting and writing weary me.
Then I come back. I have promises to keep, and miles to go . . .