A Road Through The Woods by Marge Piercy
A road through the woods
is paved with fallen leaves
that crush beneath our soles
a ripe earthy smell, decay
and a certain toasty scent:
the road dips down, sidles
up a shallow hill to the crest
of oaks, easy to walk on
side by side, a golden road
summoning, so that we hike
miles farther than we meant to.
The woods are ours a few
weeks more before hunters come
to soak the leaves with blood.
A time to harvest butternut,
striped delicata, the grooved
Red Rouge Vif d' Estampes pumpkins,
bring in the green tomatoes
before frost softens them to rot,
seasons of pears laid in paper
of the first good apples hanging
bright as poppies against the wood,
season of hawks, hunting over the cliff
on the wind, hunting over the cliff.
The swallows, warblers are gone
with the summer daisies. Crickets
chirp suddenly from under
the radiator. Spiders web
the high corners. Golden
moment that will fade quickly
to leaves the color of old blood,
to skeletal weeds, to the world
thinned down, only the birds
who winter here, only wood
and stone and monotone to see.
Marge Piercy, A Poem Of Her Own, 2003
is paved with fallen leaves
that crush beneath our soles
a ripe earthy smell, decay
and a certain toasty scent:
the road dips down, sidles
up a shallow hill to the crest
of oaks, easy to walk on
side by side, a golden road
summoning, so that we hike
miles farther than we meant to.
The woods are ours a few
weeks more before hunters come
to soak the leaves with blood.
A time to harvest butternut,
striped delicata, the grooved
Red Rouge Vif d' Estampes pumpkins,
bring in the green tomatoes
before frost softens them to rot,
seasons of pears laid in paper
of the first good apples hanging
bright as poppies against the wood,
season of hawks, hunting over the cliff
on the wind, hunting over the cliff.
The swallows, warblers are gone
with the summer daisies. Crickets
chirp suddenly from under
the radiator. Spiders web
the high corners. Golden
moment that will fade quickly
to leaves the color of old blood,
to skeletal weeds, to the world
thinned down, only the birds
who winter here, only wood
and stone and monotone to see.
Marge Piercy, A Poem Of Her Own, 2003
When I first read A Road Through The Woods, I thought that the poem was describing the changes of seasons: starting with fall and ending with summer. Although, I later realized that the poem is more about respecting the nature surrounding us, since we take it for granted. Marge Piercy wrote in detail as to how hunters just kill animals, "The woods are ours a few weeks more before hunters come to soak the leaves with blood." Overall, this poem matches my theme well.