Within
The Wood
The
woodland was my mothers’ breast,
a
log my fathers’ knee,
and
I have finally come to know,
I
should have been a tree.
My
childhood was gladly spent
as
I in shadows played,
and
danced among the maple leaves
within
the forest glade.
There
was no danger in the wood,
no
friend who went away,
no
anger from the lofty trees,
no
hateful words to say.
Within
the wood I sought the sun,
and
found it seeking me,
as
it did search for every plant
beneath
the canopy.
By Duane Huddleston
© 2004