by Jan L. Griffin

If I lived in this house

of hewn hardwood and high beams,

so often found in a Florida girl’s

dreams who has only known

concrete and clapboard,

I would sit on the deck facing east

above the barnyard and stalls.

I’d have a rocker there,

but would likely sit without.

I would have to remain there

at least three weeks to fully

follow the slope to the creek.

In time,

I would go to the creek,

lie belly side down,

right hand in the water,

enough to be tugged.

I would stay there

belly to earth, cheek to grass,

until the walls of me

fully knew clover.

It would not be time to leave

until the walls of me

matched the walls

of Lascaux.

It would not be time to leave

until, at rising, I knew

I could place my hand

on the cave of me

and find the hand inside

that matched mine.

Jan Griffin is a mental health therapist who has been writing poetry, stories, and making art since early childhood. Also since early childhood, she has been spending as much time as possible in the woods.