Connecticut Poet


Not many people can see beauty in the woods

Can see the careful disorganization

In the Connecticut forests

No, it takes someone special,

A native, per sé

Someone willing to sit in the moss

And imagine it an Indian throne

Someone willing to whistle with the birds

And hear a roaring debte

Someone willing to sit out in the wind

and feel its blow as an encouragng embrace

Someone who looks to the sawying treetops

And sees elegant dancing partners

Someone who can spot a robin amid thousands of arms

Someone who finds a fallen tree a better highway that Route 66

And someone who, when they smell the woods

Finds nothing, because it always smells like home.


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