I loved the woods as a young boy:
Nature was a true source of joy.
And She taught me things I didn't know:
many innocent years ago.
I loved how the woods would transform:
blanketed by a Winter storm.
And I'd build forts in drifts of snow,
many innocent years ago.
Shinnying up trees, scraped my knees:
yet I would climb the thinnest trees.
And feel them sway when winds would blow,
many innocent years ago.
There was just so much to behold:
I didn't think about growing old.
Time sped up, but it once ran slow,
many innocent years ago.
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