The righteous flow of the steam in the thick woods,
And the shortcut grows a route, tracked in a light path.

And on dried floral we weed out the best.
The forest to walk in, I’ll point to the nearest tree
That shines in the light, and then I’ll point to another
With my other hand, but I can only think of only the one.

The whole grace of it has conditions, how nature can die,
But live the longest of us, can I say it’s the one to follow me.
Only leave a love to grow, maybe they’ll be a branch,
That reaches for me that I don’t know.

How is not an answer; I’ll get wet with the rain,
Dried by the sun, touch the glare on my face, lost in the color,
Cry on where I step, I’ll meet you then.

©2007, Ron Globe