These woods belong to my good friend.
A week each fall, he’s kind to lend
his cabin, hills and trees to me
so I can taste the season’s end.
It’s here I sit beneath a tree
(an oak whose leaves are still not free
though summer’s green is now gone);
it’s here I sit and simply be.
The other trees look bare and drawn –
they’ll sleep until the summer’s dawn –
but oaks still sing a rustling score,
defying even winter’s brawn.
…. My songs, I hope, your hearts restore,
…. if only for a season more.