Woodsick {a poem}

To Hunter

A special mark of a boy’s childhood,

where he smeared the blood of his first buck along his cheek

and his Daddy said to always respect God’s creation.

Here in this place, his games of pretending to be a woodsman

came to life with cardboard cutouts of arrows nailed to bark

guiding him to the single shooting hut he helped build.

Oh, to be a boy.

Four wheeling through this Carolina-bred, clayish red mud

and creek-hoppin’ while skipping rocks down a rushing creek,

to realizing the streetlamps had turned on and running home,

unknowingly straight through a ripe briar bush,

leaving your mother scared to death from the numerous cuts

accompanying your small arms and legs.

These woods bring boyhood to life. No girls

allowed, except your neighbor’s annoying little sister

that is forced to be included, according to his mom.

He talked to God under that great pine

and cried over his first girlfriend, while his dad watched him

fire a rifle for the first time back through these here trees.

Point, squint, bam.

Days, months, seasons, and years flew by and this sacred place

where he once escaped the horrors of this world,

is now beginning to melt away like ice

that melts away just after a day, while all you

can do it sit and watch. Here he learned about life:

the good, the bad, and the ugly truth.

The boy grew to be a man

and these branches of brown and green

will never be the same. What used to interchange with the seasons

and always come right back has now become a stranger.

His first Christmas back home, he went to see his old birdhouse.

A haunting, red-lettered sign piercing into the ground

read the letters: SOLD, for Real Estate.

The shiver in his breath became weak, turning to vapor.

The city took hold.

Chopped it all up and shredded it away.

Now, these woods are no longer the safe haven of a boy

but the confinement of concrete, greed, and business made by man.

By: Betsy Rush