The overgrown path

I meet these characters in
clearings edged with mist,
on paths through bracken,
their heads swathed in rags
like soldiers from the front.
Scarce words are said.
Beyond the swish of wind
I often hear a cry and stop
to ponder.

When safe inside our cabin
in the woods—blessed by pets
and your presence—the figure
in the bed, surrounded by our
children, sheets still warm,
pale butter on the table,
the smell of coffee and
baking on the air,
you wonder

why I seem so ill at ease
and though I laugh, so
rarely celebrate. I guess
a part of me can’t believe
it’s true or isn’t here, or
can’t forget the sizzle of
raindrops on leaves, the
tramp of feet through trees.