Russet

I want a cabin in sylvan America,
Surrounded by emerald and rubies.
The gentle acoustic strumming
Personifying the beauty.
Gazing over the lakeside
At ripples forming in agua.
Oaks, elms, maples, and ashes
Are the only inspiration
That I need…

Verdant needles are my carpet,
A russet floor is all I desire.
Pallid wisps lackadaisically
Breeze along the sapphire air.
Covering the breathless hilltop
In their jealous sallow fog.
The stormy calm wafts slowly in,
Sparks alight the enlightenment
That I need…

The woods are my womb,
And the mountains my home.
This is where I belong
And where forever I will roam.
The woods are my tomb,
And for them I’ll always long.

I want Frost’s road not taken,
His path not yet worn.
I want Thoreau’s Walden Pond,
His crowing cockerels.
I want Kerouac’s Big Sur,
His sacred, thinking burro.

The woods are my womb,
And the mountains my home.
This is where I belong
And where forever I will roam.
The woods are my tomb,
And for them I’ll always long.

This is where I belong,
The only home I know.
This is where I belong
Where I bid my last hello.
This is where I belong

The woods are my womb,
And the mountains my home.
This is where I belong
And where forever I will roam.
The woods are my tomb,
And for them I’ll always long.

Will you join me?