Today's little poem recreates a childhood memory of the sound of my voice coming back to me, not literally saying, "lonely, lonely," but giving me a feeling of being alone in those woods, with just that echo for company.
Of course, this was only a momentary feeling, for there were other adventures to pursue, other trails to explore, other bluffs to climb, other voices to hear ... either those voices answering me or those calling me on.
Still, recognition that, for the moment, I was all alone there, listening, not to someone else repeating what I'd just said, but to my own young voice bounding faintly back to me, was a feeling not easily forgotten.
I still think of it sometimes when I become immersed in a certain kind of quiet.
Memories! How we cherish them, make them forever ours, polish them, enhance them, store them away, pull them out to comfort us in our old age.
The sound of my voice
hurried through the woods,
past sandstone bluffs,
went running across
dipped into hollows,
then came back to me,
lonely, lonely ... lonely.
(originally published in Midwest Poetry Review)
Today's word: repeating