I traversed the ridge, down hillside steep
into Doolans Hole all dank and deep.
Trekked along the fern grove way
where red newts spawn and ouzels play.
A redwood grove in the pit of this hole
dwarfs a pale sapling, a sickly pole.
A whimpering whip, its needles white,
it reaches skyward to seek the light.
Along the hollow, the thin creek ripple,
I who shy from the blind and cripple
tramped many miles for a curious peek
at this albino tree, Mother Nature's freak.
And as I climb from the pit of this hole,
I ponder the freak in my own dark soul.
Do I let it grow in God's good light,
or lose its power to the shade of night?
Copyright, 1999, William C. Roberts
|
