Woods

My hand stretches

Towards the woods’ etches

Of trees

With leaves

Rough, brown bark

With curved marks

Formed a throne

I sit firmly like a cone

Sunlights flood

Like browned mud

Through the shade

The trees made

My feet stride

Forward; I ride

Through the black, gravel path

Wet puddles drawn like a bath

A dull, yellow shed

Stands on the path led

Its wood is splintery

As if it lived many years through history

I walk down

The black, gravel path wounds

I walk towards home