To Smell the Rain

When was the last time
You walked along a trail
Deep into the dark forest
And smelled the
Rain on the wind?

Does the path you take
Take you to where
You really want to go,
Or is it the one you took
Just because everyone else did too?

The sap on the bark of the pine
All icky and gooey and slick,
I peel a drop off or two
And chew it like gum
Forgetting how tart and

Chewy it is, so I spit
And my aim that I aimed not
But still my spit feel upon the dark
Rich green ferns by the base
Of the trees, just between
The rock and the mushrooms.

I never could tell what mushrooms
I could eat and ones that would kill me,
But wild mushrooms are
Really quite something
Worth dying for.

The path is now broken
And littered with branches bare
From too much rain and wind
And not enough sun,
For, in this part of the forest

In this particular neck of the woods
The mighty spruce and fir mix
Along with the pine,
All in a line straight and true
Like the official sentinels they are.

I kick a pine cone in my way
And then another only to hear
A squirrel say,
"Hey, that’s my dinner there."
And I suppose it is, for nature
Has a way of caring for it’s own
Unlike man that cares only for self.

I followed the dimming path back
As I caught glimpses
Of daylight being chased
Into the looming dark of night
And the pinks and reds of a setting sun

Driving the last shafts of light
Down my way, I stumbled and fell
To lie there for a minute
So touch the smell
Of the dark, rich soil

Arising with a handful
Of black loam and dead pine needles,
And it made me wonder
As I stared down at my treasure
Yes, I wondered why these are called

Pine needles, for I have never
Heard of spruce needles or
Fir needles, it’s all pine;
And as I stumbled back to the
Warmth of camp,

The campfire a welcome sight,
Knowing it to be not only
The harbinger of warmth
But the provider of a hot meal,
Perhaps a can of Pork & Beans,

Hot dogs roasting on a
Whittled willow stick
Then listening to the giggles
Of the children as they roast,
And cremate, white puffy marshmallows,

Rapidly turning into crisp
Bites of nothing but evaporating charcoal
Light on the tongue,
Bitter to the taste.
So I help out and the kids get

The crackers and Hershey’s bars ready
As I toast the perfect marshmallows
And we all gather round
The fire eating smores,
Telling tales, mostly lies,

Of the one armed serial killer
That stalks these very woods at night
And then, "Oh my yes,
He is quite a fright!"

So a mass of trembling, shivering children
Gather closer to the fire
Taking turns to sit upon my knee
And gently hum then sing along
"Michael Row The Boat Ashore."

The fire begins to fade,
I choose not to toss another log
Down upon the glowing amber coals
But carry, heavy, cajole kids
Into the tents, and then

Safely tucked in dawn sleeping bags
With a gentle serenade from
Mother earth cooing
As a gentle rain dances
In the night,

"Pitter-Pat,
Pitter-Pat."
And I smell the rain
Upon the wind.