by lorenzo porras
Photos by Dean Kaufman
A green thing
Most uncontrollably in solitude
makes my soul wander from thoughts:
our bequeathed and daily toil,
to a sort of virgin wonderment at its
and our very sight.
How can I, a boy, a man, yes,
reconcile my desire for heroness,
I want to stretch myself over everything
Natural and Good,
and live a life.
The trees, now they, I know,
are my true fathers.
I hear them whisper; I am home. — ian leach