Woodland Walk

a poem by
ROSE OLIVER | Nurse + Poet 


AFTER the forced hibernation of New England’s artic winter, the temperate Spring sun transforms the forest floor. I walk upon a lush emerald carpet, dotted with Violets and lacey Boston ferns.
Mushrooms tip their caps. Jack preaches in his tiny pulpit. Crocuses’ heads emerge from the dead leaves of winter. Tree tops wave their verdant fingertips.
There is a secret place in these woods known to but a few. Surrounded by tall granite walls is a large pool, a sort of lesser known Stonehenge. “Look closely,” I told the few I chose to introduce to my refuge. Tadpoles swam about in every stage of their life development. An evening visit rewarded us with the strong bass music of their elders.
I love the daffodils, trumpeting Spring’s arrival. Crocuses raise their heads from the dead leaves of winter. Everywhere are tulips, those brilliant bee castles.
But it is the song of Spring I most love—those croakers, who always bring me back to that pool of new life.
Photograph by Mike Wilson
Rose Oliver
Rose Oliver is a retired psychiatric RN. She writes poetry, fiction, and memoir. When she is not writing, she can be found walking in her rural Massachusetts woods, observing the flora and fauna. She wakes early to write in the great quiet and solitude found before dawn. She gardens, creates jewelry, and bakes. Retirement has provided the time to write. Reading (she is voracious) provides the impetus and inspiration to write. Saul Bellow said, "Writers are readers amoved to emulation."