Heaven, Ten Minutes Out

Your first house had a pine forest behind it,
a young forest, maybe twenty years old,
The trees just tall enough that the lower boughs
were head high or a bit more.
As you walked, which you did often,
the lower branches ruffled your hair.

The trees left a carpet of needles, reddish-brown
as far as the eye could see.
The further from home you went,
the quieter the forest became, the sound
absorbed by a generation of needles.

Nothing spectacular. No great visitas.
Nothing postcard-worthy.

Ahh, but the silence. Half a mile from home and roads
and silence. Heaven, ten minutes from the back door,

About this poem

The poem speaks for itself I think. No hidden or double meanings. A memory spawned by a photograph. 

The photograph was taken at the Hebron Wildlife reserve, in Hebron, NY.

Tom