I walked out in the woods today — it was his favorite place.
I felt it only proper that I try and fill that space.
I stood and looked a while, I guess, five minutes, maybe ten.
They ought to know this gentle man would not be there again.
I pulled myself together and I walked a yard or two.
I looked for checker berries just the way that he would do.
I shook the seeds from pine cones and I sought the small wax flower.
I walked out in the woods today and spent a pleasant hour.
I thought about blueberry hill, swam pinks and evergreen,
And pussy willows near the creek, the biggest ever seen.
I thought about the hemlock cones down by the babbling brook.
Dad didn't own the stand of woods, but knew them like a book.
He took us down to "Bunker Hill" and walked us through the fern.
He pointed out the rabbit holes around each hidden turn.
He'd swing the birches with us and made willow whistles, too.
He had us all convinced that there was naught he couldn't do.
He'd find the velvet cat tail and he'd pick the milk weed pod.
He used to take us "down the field," walk through the golden rod.
My mind went down the cinder path and by the old box mill.
These things stayed with me through the years. I guess they always will.
The sun began to settle on the meadow by the wood.
I didn't want to leave the place, but knew down deep I should.
The breezes quickened, birds had stilled. The sky was growing pink.
"I'll come again," I told myself and then began to think.
I came here for a reason and I rather had to smile.
For as I left I realized he'd been here all the while.
