Oh, Brave Woodsman!

Lo, behold.
For it did happen that I ventured to the woods on Sunday.
The weather was freshly descending from colder planes,
and the air sprung all around me, new born and clean,
cooling my mind, calming my spirits.
I praised the nature around my body,
and I would’ve held the day in regards high and holy,
had I not met a filthy prophet.

Aye, I chanced upon a man,
who had harnessed the woods as his home.
He was rugged in filth and clothed in moss,
as he emerged from his hut like Christ from the cross.
“Hark, ye scum” he gave me as his greeting.
Stunned, I stood without words, mesmerized by our meeting.
The woodsman stood on a stone near by,
to elevate his small figure above mine,
and addressed me with a sermon of the brave woodsman:

“You stroll to the woods for leisure,
come hither to clear your mind, to engage in pleasure.
You invade my domain,
for Sunday walks, and thus you pronounce my lord’s name in vain.
For I worship nature.
I live by taking my livelihood from the land,
I resent and reject all creation by man’s hand.
This hut of twigs I fashioned as my home,
I feed of the plants, and hunt hares with a stone.
I have transcended your society,
I’ve become an idol above all; I am natural piety.”

Thus savaged by the words of this holy man,
I found myself at loss of words to defend my stand.
So, I asked, be he a reincarnate of Emerson.
He looked perplexed, shrugged his shoulders,
and instead, recited a few verses of “Mother Nature’s Son”.
He preached more words in praise of his life,
before retiring to his hut, to “smoke pot ‘til night”.

I stood a while, thought of the life I’ve lead,
the people I’ve loved, one’s I had right to loathe but forgave instead,
the ones I helped the best I could,
while this mossy prophet sung praise to himself in his “realm of wood”.
Then I recollected the sacred seldom smiles I produced,
to myself and others from things I sometimes mused.
I thought all this, and as my reply, I spat on the ground,
then abandoning the brave woodsman without a sound.
On the spot, a field of flowers could grow,
Were it not tainted by this woodsman’s self-righteous glow.

By JPV

Copyright January 2006