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Poem

A stream flows by the ancient oak, a steadfast soul remains,
A heart of the forest, a living log, a cover that still sustains.
The redwood of old growth, a verdant menagerie,
Simple in its English name, yet rich in its legacy.
My lowly view,
Navigating slippery slopes, salamanders in their hue.

They dart in and out of holes, in the clay they seek Refuge,oid debris, their world they won't subdue.
The forest boasts of many kinds, each with its unique feature,
The young maintain their heritage, with the plantation as their teacher.

Expecting watchful eyes, some wear their feelings on their face,
Their composure reveals their thoughts, their feelings they can't erase.

In nature's design, many depend on the old oak's shape,
Each creature with a purpose, none existing out of place.
Some salamanders are short, thick-headed and round,
Living and dying inside the wooden cavity they've found.

Others, with huge heads, delve deeper inside,
Breathing in the oak's heritage, rooted and never denied.
And as she watches from afar, she can't denie that those large
Head's can't get inside of what she feels inside.

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