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(This poem was written as a tribute to one who loved the land.)

The woods are alive;
   they breathe in deep, living breaths.
Each tree lavishly green and growing,
   saplings suckling from the mother trees.
And the ferns are abundant everywhere,
   pushing their way up toward the sun.
Soft pine needles carpet the ground,
   and the muffled crunch of an intruder's
   footfall interrupts the tranquility...
...The sanctuary becomes motionless
   and draws in its breath
   as every creature waits for a sign
   that no harm will befall it.
A man trudges through the undergrowth,
   finds a soft place to sit down and rest...
...and the forest breathes again.

K.Tate Jacoby
copyright 5/18/81

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