It is of these woods,
that my life's seeds were sown,
amid the evergreen pines,
who embraces the rare,
thou not indifferent,
fallen of snow.
Mighty oaks, barren as the fields,
whose harvest has been gathered,
and into the cribs stored,
for both famine and feast,
joyful of the latter,
dreadful of the former.
The poetic wolf,
comes scratch at the door,
as the creek brook,
itself has gone bare,
and no rabbits trapped,
in the snare are to be found.
Oaks, mighty as our souls,
reach out their tentacles,
to touch the sod below,
as squirrels scout about their storehouses,
amid the fallen branches for nuts,
in these hills of red clay.
A circle of evergreen pines,
thru the brown grass paint a masterpiece,
that no human eye could,
capture in lyric form,
ants whose red mounds fortresses,
retreat until the return of Springs warmth.
It is of this land,
and into these woods,
that my seeds were sown,
and that my ashes taken,
to merge, to be reborn,
in the light of that new morn.
