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A poet was born in the woods
(otherwise, a poet he wouldn't be).
He cried the shout of the streams,
he wept the twirls of the creeks.
He crawled amongst beasts over leaves,
rose grasping on roots.
Grew under the canopy,
dreamed under stars.
And dared.
To walk on unstepped paths,
to fall in the depths of ravines,
to gaze into where darkness dwells.
He flew with birds
and sang their songs.
He howled with wolves
and told their tales.
He ran with the stampede.
Then left it's trail.
A poet was born in the woods.
