Trees

Old man at the end of the lane
Stops a bit in his walk,
Feels a little lame,
Catches breath,
Turns 'round and 'round
To see and try to see.

Can't find his memory for the trees.

Frost's woods march on ahead;
Deep woods follow and surround,
Blot sun and moon and city lights.
Whispers of other-wheres and other-whens
Sough softly, speaking of forgotten glens
Now nearly lost to drums of ears and eye-owned lens;
The nostrils' senses feathered, hold only memories.

A lonely venture,
Being out on woodland walks
In growing dimness,
Plodding slow uncertain paths
That wander aimlessly away
From moving water.