Forest is Dying

Evening’s colder.

The crickets are crying.

October nears, and

The forest is dying.

Birds in their companies

Far-away flying;

Trees shedding foliage—

Their forest is dying.

I’m in a fog, and

My spirit is sighing.

Where can I go where

My wood isn’t dying?

Shadows are stretching;

Perhaps I was lying.

Here I will stay, and

The forest is dying.