There’s a stand of trees across the road;
Trees that have stood for an age.
They line the edge of a forest,
Its spread is hard to gage.
–
Entry is made by forest trails,
With pathways scattered between.
There is no such thing as a right path to take,
When where you are headed, matters no more
Than some notion of where you’ve been.
–
There’s a golden floor of matted needles,
With pine cones scattered about.
Beaded leaves glisten in the morning sun,
While birdcalls ring throughout.
–
There are towering columns of trees reaching up,
Ancient pillars with time on their side.
Moons come and go and seasons pass.
They tell of decades of holding fast;
Through sun and rain they abide.
–
Between these, a thick blanket of leaves lay strewn,
For some, time has painted them black.
There are mossy stumps and fallen twigs
On either side of the track.
–
It’s a world of growth and renewal,
With seeds silently growing, unseen.
There are cushions of moss and lichen on rocks,
Forked branches with fungi between.
–
From the burning heat of summer days
To the chill of winter nights.
It’s a place fully intent on surviving.
Where weed and flower hold equal rights.
–
And amid the tangle of decay and rebirth,
With its web of well-trodden ways,
There’s an everlasting sense of peace,
And the echo of ancient days.
There’s a stand of trees across the road,
It’s where the heart of nature lays.