I long to be in country.
Not for me a pot of plants
Reaching through a slant
Of rails to stretch for sun.
I feel no city comfort,
Complain of concrete, censor
Brick and shun a windowed
Wall, a steepled church.
My gods are forest deep,
On shadowed, mossy altars
Made of peat; my prayers,
The flowing streams, the rocks
They shape, the poetry they speak.
I know my self on woodland paths;
Their lore runs in my blood,
A rustic mapping through my veins
To find my heart in woods.
