Roads Of The Wood

In a springtime nature landscape,

Mighty columns reach for the highest layer

And ask favors of their children

To extend their little green spires.

This transpires in neglect of the regions below,

For sunlight finds its resting place only among the high

And lowers spires and ignorant souls

Know nothing of alleged poles of warm gold.

The indulgent columns make homes, whether by choice or not,

For though they claim wealth,

The regions below claim their sap.

And cycles of the Wood live on.

Apathetic -- man walks.

He curses the lower regions when they heed not his plans

and glances upward in disdain when falling leaves kiss his face.

Man seeks plateaus of nature's submission; a trail we'll call it.

And man sneers when two trails diverge

for man knows not their curves.

And among the trail's future scheme,

another sneers at its divergence.

One takes left, one takes right,

and after a time of spite and reflection and worry,

the two realize they have chosen the same path.

And they rejoice in their great luck,

for now an ally joins in the struggle against the Wood.

But nature looks curiously at its odd visitors, then peers past,

seeing itself, and thinking nothing of it.