The woods draw me in, enchant me;
I want to leave no shape unturned, no green unseen;
I want each flower’s imprint on my mind,
The purple of the spiderwort to saturate my eye.
I worship at the Bicentennial tree,
Ancestral oak, with willow leaves’ blue sheen.
Here history is by nature’s hand refined.
It suffers loss, but does not die.