At the Edge of the Forest

By John Herlihy

Some days are spent at the edge of the woods,

Where crows fly imperiously with heavy hoods.

Its wild allure tempting us in the running creek;

Its constant chatter speaks mirth and runs deep.

At the edge of the forest, I feel its interior mind,

A well of deep inner consciousness, wild in kind.

Realms of nature share their abundance of wealth,

That our imagination readily absorbs as if by stealth.

The depths of the ocean never give rise to sound,

While in the open air, lithe birdsong heard all round.

A mountain range has waves the ocean never sees,

The verdant mountain but the playland of the bees.

Slow gestures of the trees play a perpetual charade,

The procession of industrious ants in diligent parade.

Undulating waves speak of summons in a flock of birds,

The surging wave seen in a stampede of buffalo herds.

From the edge of the forest we look inside and know;

A forest lies beyond the forest that will always grow.

Where kinship is born in the depths of the human mind,

To feel the wild communion drawn from earth’s mine.

The seamless presence of the forest echoes a lyric unity,

To draw us into its haunting depths with chilling impunity.

I roam the edge of the forest to feel its spirit, to take a peek,

Thru this window of tempting mystery to find all that we seek.

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(c) John Herlihy December 2018