The woodland was my mothers’ breast,
a log my fathers’ knee,
and I have finally come to know,
I should have been a tree.
My childhood was gladly spent
as I in shadows played,
and danced among the maple leaves
within the forest glade.
There was no danger in the wood,
no friend who went away,
no anger from the lofty trees,
no hateful words to say.
Within the wood I sought the sun,
and found it seeking me,
as it did search for every plant
beneath the canopy.
By Duane Huddleston
Copyright © – Duane Huddleston 2004