A REFUGE FOR POETS WHO WRITE IN THE LYRIC TRADITION,
WITH RHYME AND METER, WITH OR WITHOUT MUSIC
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WHO OWNS THESE WOODS
Who owns these woods I think I know.
But someone tell me why it’s so
That anyone should own these woods,
When all would own them if they could?
These woods are now but one man’s dream.
Alpine meadows, mountain streams,
Rocky scarps and timber stands,
Are deeded now to private hands.
The owner once himself was thrown
From woods in which he used to roam.
For privacy his woods are closed.
He now becomes what he opposed.
He bought these woods to keep them wild.
I remember, as a child,
The fallen logs and dusty dirt,
The timber company’s handiwork.
And as these priceless woods grow back,
His stewardship which others lacked,
Produces woods which wond’rous are.
Why must I view them from afar?
Of course I will return again,
To visit them and not remain,
To cross by day, be gone by night,
And everyone should have this right.
Greenfield, Massachusetts, 1986
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