The Simple Word Poetry

Aged stump, alone Infant seedlings rise nearby Nature's progression

Leaving civilization behind, if only for a week, I arrive in central Maine's expansive countryside, far from the northeast's bustling cities and crowded populations, besieged by Trump 2020 signs, yet entranced by nature's overwhelming sublimity. My home away from home will be a 100-year-old rustic cabin, originally built by railroad men, straddling the shores of Spruce Mountain Lake, sans modern amenities such as running water and electricity. Deciduous forests surround me, creating an exotic perimeter of lush green flora. Loons take to flight, then dip for a wade in the lake's cool waters, their hymns echoing around me, sung in high pitched tones. The winds whisper softly in my ears, nature's deafening silence satiates my soul. Outside the cabin, dead fall makes ideal fire wood, laying in a heap awaiting the campfire's roaring flames. Home to millions of micro-organisms and bugs, I feel a profound sense of guilt for disturbing these stumps, their humble abodes,

Across the still waters, with glorious hues of red, orange and yellow, the sun sets in the west, yet awakens our souls to the day's denouement.