(A reading of this poem has been beautifully rendered by Abigail Baker and can be heard here.)
Walking between giants
The wind above whirs through the firs,
while down below, white little flowers—
from wood sorrel,
their pink-veined petals—
on delicate stems,
quiver, …
to the sound of a nearby river.
Bare feet walk on soft brown,
needled forest paths.
But oh! Not on baby beech trees,
from the ground emerging
like butterflies
with green rubber wings.
Bare feet walk over curving tree roots,
covered in earthy moss—
emerald velvet carpet.
Walking between giants,
standing,
proud and noble,
reaching, straight, into the sky—
beech trees of a hundred years.
Around their roots are heaps
made by ants,
who scurry over crisp oak leaves,
from autumn last.
With eyes closed,
they sound as loud as the trees are tall.
Bare feet walk not on ants.
Ants walk over bare feet.
One ant stands on two of his six feet,
assuming a warrior pose,
protecting his castle, his kin.
Behind him towers another castle
built in medieval times,
by men,
and partially ruined,
and partially rebuilt,
by men.
It was catapulted,
due to a dispute between two men,
who both wanted the same princess.
Bare feet brave the stinging of ants,
and walk on,
on soft forest carpet,
to the edge of the forest,
where white butterflies—
their wings like cherry blossoms,
flutter free in the grass green meadow,
adorned with dandelion gold.
The cherry trees are white clouds
held by branches,
that shine bronze in the sun.
Bare feet walk on,
on soft forest carpet,
deep into the forest,
where, by the granite rocks,
lay large white feathers.
Of what creature that may be?
Please let it not be an angel …
And if it was,
may it have stilled
the perpetual hunger of a lone soul,
and may it all not be in vain.
Bare feet walk on soft forest paths.
The wind above whirs through firs,
while down below,
white little flowers,
on delicate stems,
quiver, …
to the sound of a nearby river.
Copyright © Quirina Roode-Gutzmer 2012.
All rights reserved.
In memoriam: Rudolph Eduard Roode (21 August 1937 ‑ 3 May 2006).
Today, in my mind, I walk with my father, bare feet on soft forest paths. He is a giant, standing, proud and noble.
“Nothing is so strong as gentleness, nothing so gentle as real strength.” —Sitting Bull
