Morning in the Pines

A humble, wooden bench sitting in the woods.
It leans from age and the stress of the weather,
but it won’t fall. Its as strong as ever.
A path runs beside it, so muddy and murky,
that no one comes near it, for their shoes will get dirty.
Even forgotten, the bench is not alone,
for the nature around it reminds that it’s home.

The singing birds say all is good.
Cardinals chirp, a scarlet red.
While the titmouse buzzes out of bed.
A flock of juncos flitter about,
With the morning nigh, no one could pout.
Through the trees, they dance and fly.
Every one of them at home in the peak of the sky.

A breeze bustles the great limbs of the pines.
Light paints their needles in different shades of green,
after a long winter both frigid and mean.
The sweet pine scent is given with a yawn,
to greet the cool watercolors of dawn.
Throughout the day, they’ll be quite proud,
to give shade to every sweating brow.

Insects buzz on flowers to dine,
on tangy nectar so soft and sweet.
Every bee knows its their favorite treat.
Spiders’ webs drift through the air
like thin strains of silver hair.
A small detail in the thick of the forest,
Life goes on in joyous chorus.

A humble wooden bench sitting in the woods.
The singing birds say all is good.
A breeze bustles the great limbs of the pines.
Insects buzz on flowers to dine.
What a morning to be alive,
sitting back in the thick of the pines.