Flying
FLYING
Before I ever thought of age
I dreamed of running through the woods
And lifting my feet from the ground and flying.
Only a few inches up, not over trees.
But yard after yard, gliding into Spring
And never falling.
College came, soon in the Fall.
It was the time. I was of age.
Still I would look to the Spring
For trips back to my youth filled woods
And climbing mountains full of trees
I would again dream of flying.
A wife and children, how time flies
Year after year from Springs to Falls.
I taught the kids about the trees
Still young enough and at the age
When mystery still lived in woods
And life was always almost Spring.
We bought a cabin near a spring
I taught the kids to fish with flies
The sun sneaked through soft pine woods
And lit up everything where it fell.
Oh, those were the days, that was the age
When all we needed for friends were trees.
I gaze out through the glass .High over trees.
Ten stories up above an outdoor’s Spring.
Jobs are hard in this new age.
But still I dream of flying.
I will retire in the Fall
To mountains and familiar woods.
They are all gone. I’m in the woods
Surrounded by familiar trees.
The cabin sulks in shades of Fall
Afraid there may not be a Spring.
Or dreams of flying
At my age.
The woods will still be there in Spring.
The trees will bloom. The new birds fly.
And someone else will look to Fall and flying through the ages.
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