Early Winter Wood
A young friend asked me to write a poem "you know, like Frost"
I thought a walk might do me some good,
An hour alone in the early winter wood.
I've never known who owns it, nor care,
In all the years I've not seen him there.
Ten acres, perhaps, of towering pine
And a dry stream bed that old oaks line.
Pines pale green, a thin blanket of snow;
Oaks brown and bare as the stream below.
One never is really alone in such a place;
Life flourishes here with a natural grace
That hasn't changed since the first bird cried.
And where life abounds, so death must abide.
Between pines above and oaks below
A rabbit whose eyes will never again know
The sight of one such as I who intrudes
To find the peace my own life eludes.
And there in eyes that will never close
I see all that it was, and where life goes.
I bury it there where the stream will flow
And pines lay a wreath of needles and snow.
Poetry by countryfog
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Written on 2012-12-11 at 18:11
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