The Trees
Oak, Willow, Maple, Birch.
Would this wood aid me in my search.
I could not see the wood from the trees.
I’d try so hard, but could not please.
Every year we grow a new ring.
The old man of the wood loses his voice.
Before was his time, I heard him sing.
Back in his youth, when we had that rare thing.
Choice.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
