My forest, my home,
Where the dead leaves fall.
Their crisp forms spinning
Through the air before coming to rest on
The ground beside me.
The sunlight streams like a river
Through the painted canopy of leaves.
The gentle glow of pastel light reminds
Me of the fascinating rainforests of the world,
Forests I want to save.
The birds of my own forest sing like nightingales,
Sweet yet melancholy at the thought of summer being over,
While the humming of the insects filters through the air,
Like nature’s own symphony.
As I lay on my back in the tall grass and goldenrod,
I notice the older hemlocks, pines and oaks bend down,
As if to tell encouraging tales of growth and prosperity,
To the saplings and plant life below.
I do not want this forest to go silent,
Dead like a cemetery, the animals gone,
Empty and burned down because of man.
I want it to live. I want to preserve it.
My forest, my home is a world of wonders,
The storyteller of spirits,
The place of light and harsh darkness,
The livelihood of Earth’s creatures,
And the place I wander,
That is the forest.