The Woods

The woods of my youth, they call out my name,

beckoning unto me with their gentle sway.

For I long to sit in their stony silence,

to weigh and measure, life

 that hangs in the balance.

How I crave to sit in solitaire trance

And watch the falling leaves

as they swirl and dance.

I yearn to hear the gathering of crows,

As they caw their call of defiance

to the silent woods below.

Oh

To sit,

To sleep,

To smell the decaying leaves

Which molder beneath my feet.

To taste the sunshine

That flickers on my face,

To rest a weary mind

Which has tired of life's wicked pace.

Oh but to capture just once more

The solitude and comfort

That the woods of my youth bore.

Oh

To sit ,

To sleep,

by the gentle stream.

To watch a leaf

 In an eddy.

To quietly dream.

Oh these woods of mine,

Will I ever,

Ever

Taste of the pleasure

That they hold in store

will I ever again,

ever again

find these woods of mine?

J. Allen Wilson © 2004