Our spirit’s born the chill of dawn

When dew clings helpless to the vine

Before the din of structured man

Disguises Mother Nature’s charm

The ever present offer waits

It beckons weary souls to prowl

Beyond the confines of chaotic cells

To sojourns of the unrestrained

Where endless canvas drifts aloft

Granting turbulence a brief repose

Where breeze directs the music’s dance

Of sheltered forests’ songs of gold

By Diane How