MAN OF THE WOODS

Born quite a distance from civilized land, this man was,

In this place, these surroundings of still and quiet, lives he.

Immense sort of a man, bearded with scraggly hair,

Hunts for that which he eats, gun or knife in hand has he.

In weather hostile or friendly he makes his way, survives,

Cabin built of wood is where this loner dwells in silence.

Content to be in this place without another soul for company,

Whittling wood or the harmonica played is a passion of a man alone.

Fish that have been caught in a stream nearby, fried up for dinner,

Eaten next to a fire that takes the chill from the night as he thinks.

On the porch settles this soul who exists in solitude enjoying the night,

Not so complete without the puff of smoke from his tobacco filled pipe.

As he speaks good night to all around, all that lives, he’s off to slumber,

Whom he is matters not, man of the woods, farewell.

Keith Garrett