I Walk the Woods By Dave Donelson

By Dave Donelson

Writer Dave Donelson left his successful business career in 1999 to become a full-time freelance writer. In 2020 he both completed a memoir of his life growing up (entitled Fathers: A Memoir) and began a daily journal where he posts his thoughts, observations, and insights each day. Titled “Journal of My Seventieth Year: A Memoir In Real Time,” all four volumes of this daily diary are available in eBook, paperback, and hardcover editions for purchase on Amazon. We have been pleased to share with agebuzz readers select individual posts from Dave’s journal, as well as his photography and illustrations that accompany the journal entries. You can find out more about Dave and his writing on his website, and read his work on agebuzz here.

Today’s poem, “I Walk the Woods” is part of a new direction for Dave. As he himself describes it, “I’ve always been intrigued by the idea of combining words and images, so this project represents a sort of visual poetry. The theme of the work comes first, then the poetry and artwork are created pretty much simultaneously until the piece is finished. I envision the final product being a book with some 20 to 30 multiple-page pieces in different visual and textual styles, all on the subject of growing older as I experience it. The book will be a visual poetry collection titled “Visions of a Certain Age.” In support of this project, Dave has received a grant from ArtsWestchester with funding from the NYS Council on the Arts. Dave welcomes your comments and feedback on this poem or any of his previous pieces on agebuzz. Please feel free to reach out to him at [email protected].

I Walk the Woods

I walk the woods

In a maze of my own making.

A crisscross switchback track

Of animal trails and footpaths.

Some blazed, some blind.

No steps repeated.

Years refract into days

And shards of memory.

A whitetail stares,

Wary of my footfalls,

Snapping twigs, skittering leaves.

No silent passage.

Time retreats into trees.

A storm-thrown trunk

Crushes a well-laid wall.

Stones tumble to earth

Where they were born.

No more sign of man.

I cross paths with no one

Except myself, searching

Among the oaks and beeches,

The ferns and boggy fens,

For a path in my maze

Where I walk the woods.