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.