There was a time when fog and forest seemed
quite fearful -- I remember being small,
and looming roots would trip me as I dreamed
my way along the path amid the tall
Norwegian pines that marked the woods between
my house and yours; nearby the river glowed
with fog that slid through branches evergreen
and cradled the scent of dogwood as it flowed
around and through me. And then, in my youth, I sought
the dark and mist, and found it reassured.
But with age, again, in forests I'm distraught:
the trees seem ominous, now I've matured,
reaching out with slender fingers to whip and taunt me;
dark skeletons, bleak harbingers -- they haunt me.
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