poetry & things

Forest ways

In these woods

where I am small, I watch breath rise and fall

in these pines of a hundred years or more

from pine cones, skyward moving slow.

I watch rain running down craggy bark,

soaking softly the moss and flowers below.

In the summer sun of heat, I lose myself complete

in the fragrant warmth of pinewood air.

The moss – yellow, green

in waves, it hangs wispy from the trees

Here where evening brings the birds and breezes quivering,

the wind shakes the forest trees, deep and echoing

the ravens woods speak to thee.

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