A Way Like The Woodland Poem by Scott J. Shepard

At this end, the woodland,
red pines paraded
for all things in between.
Thoughts that separate the busied world
from their roots,
staying safe beyond concern.

There I wondered if that crowded midtown
All headlonged and hustled
had ever in their consistency,
speeding past what thoughts may anchor,
questioned what lay from pine to pine.
If relation were like the frenzied highway
where commute, a similar destination
of stillness hard at work,
made sense like the pines did.

If their business were a jargon,
the weightless singing sway and whisper,
not a rampart briefing, but a space
chattering the weathering wind.
As if they were a balmy interaction
within a corporate café,
the coffee a crisp aroma,
supplant to the air.

I'd wonder if those roots had ever touched,
providing time for love.
Two sets of eyes balanced,
concerted in harmony,
the street interposed and dynamical,
yet the pines all too determined and fixated
for the haste of some city rush.