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Who’se woods these are, I’d rather not be told
Nature is our mother, not to be bought and sold,
Unseen, In a clearing, I park my car, to witness,
Nature clothed in raiment, silvery white and gold.
Chipmunks and squirrels merrily playing,
Amidst many a snow’s fold,
While the deer hoof away the snow and ice,
To munch on roots , in the bitter cold
The woodpecker taps away at the tree’s bark,
With a rhythm fast, determined, loud and bold,
And the fragrant, crisp wind softly whispers,
Melodies, some new and some old
Entranced, with gratitude, joy and awe,
I stand, the forest’s pristine beauty to behold.
My trusty old Dodge must think it strange,
To stop outside any dwelling’s range
Amidst frost covered trees, aside frozen lake,
In the Apalachian mountain range.
As I turn off the ignition,
She, of her own volition,
Gives her crankshaft a shake,
To ask if there is some mistake
And the only other sound is the rat-tat-tat,
That two woodpeckers make.
The woods are alive with mystery and wonder,
But threatened by human greed and plunder.
Their beauty astounding and deep,
Their secrets, ever to keep
From the greedy calculating mind,
Revealed only to the heart,
That is loving, true and kind.
Wilderness is majestic, dark and deep,
And, though I have no promises to keep,
I have some distance to go before I sleep
Some distance to go, before I sleep.
(I wrote this poem while living in solitude in the Apalachian Mountains in January 2014 – krishna kant shukla)