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| Highlands Hammock in Sebring, Florida |
of the parks, accessible by wooden bridges
puffed with moss and marked by lovers
for posterity. Walk deep enough, further in
until no sound of man breaks through the thicket
of tall hickories and palms and swampy soup that
looks as if it hasn't changed since pioneers
appeared, so quiet that the ripples made by water bugs
can fool you into looking past them, sure there's fish
or frogs, an alligator which would make a better
story when you get back home. A leaf is silent as it falls
to land on mirrored water but when, mid-air, it lightly grazes
just the hair upon one cheek, you jump a bit. then feel a little
foolish, but only just. Out here amidst the wildness
even if now cordoned safely off, barricaded with so many gates
and trails and parking fees, you know the wildness
only tolerates such things for its own pleasure,
and could break through at any moment, should it choose.
You feel this truth to your very core, because it's something
that you share with nature. wildness locked inside as well.
(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013
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