In depths of the hollow,
With caution I proceed.
I'm sure no one will follow,
As I walk from weed to weed.
This place is my own,
No soul will see me here.
I come to be alone,
Spring-Time every year.
What is it about this place,
That makes me feel alive..?
A wide and open space,
Away from busy hive...
I glide my hand along,
An old decrepit tree.
Humming out a song,
Just this tree and me...
I look it up and down,
As if my best of friend...
But soon I start to frown,
My friend has met his end.
I'm just about to leave,
When on my leg there comes a scratch.
What I see, I can't believe...
A tree as skinny as a match.
Matt Teaford
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/depths-of-the-hollow/
