Member Poem

Within the rocky woods the drizzle mist
Is swishing in before it leaves again;
I think of the hearth back home, the fire’s hiss,
The smell of fresh burnt wood within the den.
I walk through budding trees without a sense
In parts bereft of paths. I slide down slow
A hill of ferns to find a horse trail dense
With weeds. The stream nearby has overflowed
And newborn ponds break out upon the earth.
The pine trees weave an ancient tapestry,
A folklore spun of threads from nature’s birth
When lands first formed. Beneath a canopy
I stop to shelter from the swelling rain,
To soak in shadows, seeming much the same.