I'm on my daily routine walk.
Only solitude, no time to talk.
Though I can communicate very far,
I choose to be silent, during this hour.
My footsteps are heavy upon this place,
so I stick to the trail, with no disgrace.
For if I crush the smallest bud,
it is though I crush, my own flesh and blood.
For these trees are sacred to me,
my source of food and sanctuary.
My place of refuge in my old age,
the place where I can turn the page.
In my younger days, I pulled with might,
tore trees down, as if with spite.
But I was only doing my job.
For the barons that ruled to rob.
I'm on my way to the sea,
where I will bathe and breathe free.
To soothe my aching old bones,
dreaming of places we once called homes.
Those days are gone, but I am lucky,
they saved this place for me to be.
For without wild places like this,
I'd be gone and forever missed.
Copyright 2012 © Ronald W. Hull
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