Work-sick, world-shy and heart-weary, I went
To ask the woods if they remembered me.
Would I still find words pinned to every tree
Like poor Orlando’s poems? I had meant
To come there sooner, spend more time among
Them, walk their well-known paths and hunt for rhymes
Like birds’ nests. Of our tiny daily crimes
These are the worst: to leave our songs unsung,
And sights laid on for us unseen. The drive
To Do leaves us so little time to Be.
We’ve endless choice: let’s use it, and be free –
Make livings matter less than being alive.
Come with me, seek the solace of the wood:
Look on its works, and see that they are good.
Thanks, Tom. N.