Ringed by a tall, told wood,
A meadow pond dearly stood,
Deep and dark, the branched lands
Of childhood reaching to forever,
Throughout the growing seasons,
Rich in pines, bane ivy, hemlocks,
Naked columns of the freed bark,
To shelter the treed imaginations
Of running youth, where creatures
Became fabled to the wide open
Eyes tearing into the overgrowths,
Heading by the shudders of caul,
In the shades of the woody owl,
Greatly horned was the sly song,
The never present wails of cold, lost
Nightingale nor snout of woodcock,
Camouflaged in the browned leaves,
The gracing sun smoked in the morn,
And flamed forgotten in leafy eves,
In the needled myths of the roaming
Creatures, the dandy pheasant struts,
The brawned hind in the foraging doe,
Painted turtles, helmeted above ripples
Of parapet stone in soft water breached,
Sparking stars reigned with swirling fireflies
And glow of moon, as ever appeared, shook
The playful fear within, without, belongings
Of the child who spun his own tales, so held,
This, then was begun paradise in a sleepy waterlog
Of vale, outward from the shadowlands of creep age,
Kept, for daze, won, dreamed, in the torrid torching
Stalks, sunlit hold, the flash of painted face, knotty
Brilliance set free, the unmatched strike in reeds.
