Bramble rings adorn her toes,
Briarroot and sundried rose.
Ashen eyes with shaded grin,Twisted roots flow from her skin.
This weekend my husband and I visited a 200-acre preserve. It was a bit of a drive with all of the highway construction, but once we got past the congested traffic the roads were open and quiet. When we reached our destination, parking, or a lack thereof, was a challenge so we circled the lot like sale-seekers on Black Friday. A spot eventually opened up and we got out of the car to stretch our legs.
With the air warm for the first time in months and the sun on our shoulders, we hiked the trails around a creek pressing deep into the forest. Well . . . not really. We only went a few feet off-course to take pictures by the stream. Other families were there too with kids and pets, keeping as close to the main trail as possible.
It was a perfect afternoon, beautiful in all its late winter glory. The rustling leaves and eerie stillness gave me a ton of ideas for my new book. I closed my eyes and imagined what it would be like to get lost in the woods—splintered limbs and shadows in every direction.
How long would it take for the mind to become dense with fear? Five minutes into your off-path-detour? Perhaps later, when you became disoriented and a rustling vine next to your leg seemed to slither out from the shade.
I hope to hang on every hyper-vigilant sensation—uneasiness oozing onto the page as I craft my new scenes. It’s been difficult to write about a subject with so much retrospection, but it’s a challenge I hope will change my book’s main character as well as myself.