DYMPHNA WOODS

a poem by Nicholas Trandahl

In the last cold days of November,

right on the doorstep of winter,

I stride quickly into the high country

miles from the nearest dirt road,

as though I can simply flee

my sorrow, my stagnation,

and my army of fears.

In my thick green sweater

and a scarf I bought in El Paso,

my booted steps crunch

into the snow of the trail as I

follow elk prints higher and higher.

Sweating and breathless

in the cold mountain air,

I reach a shattered forest —

aspens and pines all broken

and fallen in the same direction.

Was there ever a place that

more matched my spirit?

I imagine Saint Dymphna

wandering toward me in that

broken wild place.

Her long hair as red as apples.

Her youthful freckled face

alive with ageless sympathy

and wisdom.

She wears a white blouse and a

long green skirt of homespun

that reaches to her muddy boots,

and she carries a book in one hand

and a bouquet of white lilies

in her other.

But she isn’t real.

I am alone —

as I always am

when I shouldn’t be.

I look around me —

take in that primal sylvan ruin.

I mumble a prayer to her then.

I plead with her.

Saint Dymphna, fill my heart

with gladness.

Help me to be courageous.

Heal my broken spirit.

Silence.

Cold windswept silence

in that shattered forest.

The silence that only comes

after a desperate prayer to

something said to be divine.

There is no silence more crushing.

I hope for a sign or revelation

in the hard miles I’ve yet to walk,

or on the granite summit

where I rest on the stones

and the rust colored undergrowth

to eat the food in my knapsack

and contemplate on an empty page

in my long-quiet poetry journal —

pen perched at the ready and

ink drying in the cold breeze.

I look down on the shattered forest

where I prayed fruitlessly to the

patron saint of those of us

that are overwhelmed with sorrow

and riddled with anxious fears.

If she’s real, she didn’t hear me —

just as nobody heard me when

my private treasury of

fears and sorrows were born

when I darkly toiled in the

harsh reality of the Middle East.

There on the mountaintop,

if I could just climb a little higher,

perhaps the saints could hear me.

But I’m on the summit —

the pinnacle.

There’s nowhere left to climb.

This is it.

The milky full moon that

shines through the pale dusk

is a reminder of the things

I will never obtain.

It races across the stars,

across their burgeoning tapestry

of ancient myths and symbols —

things older and angrier

than saints.

The neon orange horizon

is a symbol of the places

I will never travel to.

The western brim of the world

throbs with that brilliant promise,

but I am just so far from it

as I sit heavy and alone

on that cold wintry mountaintop.

My body is sore and my

clothes are damp with sweat,

but there is no purification.

This is no crucible

to forge a better man.

There is no peace on the mountain

or in the quiet solitude of the

shattered forest.

There are no favors or blessings

from gods or saints —

no encouragement.

Even the old gods in the stars

flicker with cold silence

in the lavender wash of twilight.

There are only mumbled words

that fade too quickly in

the silence.

There are only wishes

set loose into the cold wind.

They tumble like autumn leaves

for a while, but then they

settle somewhere to rot and

become lost beneath the snow.

In the gathering dark,

I make the journey home,

but my burdens are not lighter.

I am cold and sore.

Saint Dymphna is as silent

as she’s ever been.

I am not a better man.