Home, Again

"He neither much desired to go where he had been headed, nor much desired to return where he had started."

The woods are foxgloved, overwrought,
And the gnomic tree roots mutter
About their undiscovered gnomes.

"In any other book, any
Other autumn-chasing summer,
We might not expect this shy look

To be dangerous, as it comes
Out of a glance from emptiness,
But then again, any other

Writer might not really intend
To dig out mushroomed, loopy puns,
To nest one looping reference

Involving things just under leaves,
Like frost, like lost children's teacups,
And things so buried under hill

The caves that tempted their makers
With shuddering, sea-deep darkness
Have sunk themselves into lifeless

Silences, the stuff of nightmares
For getting dreams away from doubt."
What? You heard what I haven't said.