In my childhood dreams, I'd silently walk,
Moss-covered paths in a sun-speckled wood;
And with woodwind voices the trees would talk,
About starry nights and how rain feels good.
Then a busy squirrel, high in a tree,
Would stop his bustle, then stare in my face,
And would shout squirrel expletives at me,
Chattering loudly till I left that place.
The forest would hum as I walked along,
Watching me with arboreal esteem;
Till the wind would carry their ancient song,
On the fairy breeze and into my dream—
Till I gained green grace from my surreal stroll;
Their song healed my heart and it salved my soul.
These days, I can only dream of long, peaceful walks in a green wood.