poem of the day January 11 

The virgin wood from

the clearcut wilderness

of a once great forest

was made into

a huge house which sat

in the center of

the newly open field

The trees still standing on

the edge of civilization

looked everyday at

the huge timber frame 

built from the wood 

of ghost tree souls

The building rose 

tall and strong

like a mausoleum

in honor old lost friends

Sometimes on a full moon

when time reflects time

and is able to bend

into unknown worlds

The Trees would all rattle

the temple long and hard

always without a wind