The Wood Poem by Michael Dikeman

The wood do call in this lovely dream. The blur of red, brown, and green. A hunters dreams, chased and followed, wind wisps and scent unseen.

The gods of green stands high among the trees. Their touch blossoms bring. Given pause for the speed of creature they perceive. No ferocity, just the love of racing among all the green.
Soon past, moving from hillside to Grove, meadow to brook. In this lovely dream nothing is mistook just the privilege of running free.

The wood do call, back to home, among the greens. The chase past bubbling brook, high grass of meadows been, steep sloped hillsides of trees. To the wood home has forever been.