Out of Place

I would
That this forest,
This little wood
In which I trace
The seasons slow pace
Could remain
The same.

Spring
Summer, autumn and winter does bring
A natural order to this changing thing
Which alters not, save in accordance with nature’s law.

The woodland floor
Is now with leaves strewn
But soon
Winter’s chill
Will
Lay an icey hand
Upon this land.

Yet it is not as before
As the forest floor
Is strewn with leaves in summers overly hot
For man has forgot
The natural order of things
And his...