woods enveloped, canopy,
a refuge, home from home,
Its the, cave-man thing-
following 'modern' me
around, tapping my shoulder
lighting fire, listening-out-
for the future, fearful-
extinction, like the Mammoth

The thoughts have found a voice
Waiting to be expressed on paper
Communicating the deepest feelings
Taking the pen in earnest
Before the ink dries
To convey, that isn't spoken

A damsel, fair with braided hair,
Her beauty wild beyond compare,
Came bustling to the summer faire,
Her petticoats a-flowing;

She settled there, upon a chair
And watched the young men stop and stare,
But none of them would dare to dare
To coax her with a-wooing;

In her despair, she gasped for air,
No one it seemed would know or care,
Her beauty hid a deep despair
That she was not a-showing

And unaware how to declare
The secrets that she dare not share,
The damsel left to who knows where,
And no one is a-knowing

How came a damsel quite so rare,
With beauty fair and braided hair,
Alone with no one's love to share,
Her petticoats a-flowing

needle and thread
is what she said
eight legs i need
to spin and weave
the spider's web
eight legs i need
to knit and stetch
a black and red
checkerboard sky

do roots of trees of my childhood know.... me?
grown way beyond my small stature
they out grew me. And I potter around
my parents garden, wondering, at things
of little consequence.... do the roots remember... me?