The Forest

The Forest

 

Poem by: Joyce E. Johnson

There is a knoll of land

Where the pines and fir still stand,

As if at attention answering the call

They receive the birds and game of small.

The winds carry their song

Through the nestled branches long.

It is to those that find

With solace to the mind

A place kept to retreat

Where the air still smells of sweet

Flowers growing wild,

 Pines that drop their fruit,

And leaves that follow suit.

For all the seasons to come,

And all the seasons of past

This knoll of land lies in wait

And beckons to be last

To join the host of trees that boast

To greatness lest they fall

To fate, succumbed, cut and quartered

They surrender to the saw.

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