The Forest
To the forest I must go.
Trees laden down with snow.
Winding paths, towering poles.
Secret hidy holes.
Little faces watch, as you go by.
With a flicker of the eye.
The denizens of the deep.
Need a place to sleep.
Oak, Yew, Fir and Pine.
All growing, supine.
No concrete jungle here.
Only the roaming deer.
Fruit abound, sweet and ripe.
Trees climb up to the light.
The forest is a place of joy.
Do no destroy.
Copyright © Norman Purvis | Year Posted 2006
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment