I went into the woods
to count the countless trees,
where three hundred years
is young,
found they indeed have a number
the ancient mossy stumps of giants
felled long ago
host seedlings that may never
grow
to the heights of their ancestors
while the wind through the pine boughs
are whispered legends, myths in Mi’kmaq
quietly told to others who will never understand.
© Erik Hansen 2018
Filed under American, Contemporary, Creative Writing, Diversity, Edges, Literature, outdoors, Poetry, Publishing, Self Publishing, Writing
“There’s a race of men that don’t fit in,
A race that can’t stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain’s crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don’t know how to rest.”
Robert W. Service
1911
Filed under Edges
Edges 