Woodland Glosa

No sigh for me, no sympathy,
No wish to keep my soul below;
The heart is dead in infancy,
Unwept for let the body go.

—“At Castle Wood”
Emily Brontë

And I often wonder just what
Makes up the sighs; our breath, or souls?
We walk among the trees, dreaming
About the dead longing to speak —
Do they? Are they longing? Whispers
Surround us like psychopathy,
Leaving little room for your doubts.
Walking dark paths of the forest
Looking for you; telepathy —
No sigh for me, no sympathy.

Leaving us too many questions,
Too many interpretations.
We envision you wandering,
Walking the hills and forests deep;
Entire worlds behind your dark eyes,
Worlds we live in now, worlds we know
Like childhood houses, ingrained scenes
We cherish. You flutter, ghostlike,
Liminal, with your thoughts thorough,
No wish to keep my soul below.

Or any soul at all, you sought
Only enduring impressions —
Lifting our eyes from inwardness
To behold mindscapes projected,
Transforming solitude into
Forest walks. Your necromancy
Was to bring lively acceptance
To faith blued by frost, yes, perhaps
Heresy, but not truancy;
The heart is dead in infancy.

Perhaps I’ve stumbled upon
Your monument; quite like you were,
Only half here, yet remaining
With one eye to vision, one eye
Fixed upon what will pass away —
Rather than fret life’s overthrow
You founded temples in the woods.
Eulogizing the lost future,
Hymning between leaves all your woe,
Unwept for let the body go.