Is there a place so great and fair,
Where moths still dance (most days) in the air?
Where stumps, yet blackened, in
remembrance of long past blaze
Where the air is easily inhaled by
every creature, from the tiniest of
insects to the sleeping black bear?
Is there a place so wonderfully bare
Of all the things that make life for me hard?
A place where work is foreign and the
farmer doesn’t dread the rising of the
big orange ball?
Where the glorious sunshine hits the
earth in a fragrance of color, that
makes trout and bass jump and the
streams look silver?
A place where moss covers rocks for
you to lay, softer than a bed of feathers
Where a shriveled-up leaf with its
stem still in place, looks like a field
mouse ready to race?
Oh, I beg you to tell me if you know
the place, where the tops of oak trees
clatter when the wind blows.
The place is the woods, if you know it
or not, the best place to live, learn,
and be taught.