PoetryKafe

Upon the wooded hill
The forest sentinel stood
Made from wind falls
Wooden scraps and ullage
Skillfully fashioned
To become, complete with binoculars
The birdwatcher
But all was not as it seemed
For the sentinel
Destined to forever study
What fell before his gaze
Every autumn
Turned his attention upon
His favorite birch tree
Who when the autumn wind blew
Began to shed her leafy canopy
All the year round he studied
In detail her fully covered form
But in the autumn he could
Revel in her nakedness
The sentinel spoke to himself
Oh I’m getting a woody
And with that his sap began to rise
Oh no too soon, too soon
Then all too suddenly it was over
So upon the wooded hill
The frustrated forest sentinel stood
Staring through his binoculars
And telling himself
There’s always next year

by Paul Curtis

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