Boreal

There’s a pleasant port where a boy fixed his course On a lesser-trodden landscape north And on his journey boreal met one corporeal One returning journey forth “What draws you to the barren there,” he said “That land is nothing but dampen dread And sour berries, and rotten cherries And icy rime and that snowy, snowy pine That bleak, bare lawn is woebegone But carry, carry, carry on” “Oh no,” he said “You must have misunderstood It’s not the land’s comestible goods Not the berry that I seek, bbut the way it hangs on the arrow wood And I am not after that snowy shawl But the way the faint flakes float and fall And to me that alabaster milky rime Is as sweet as sugar and just as fine And I don’t care one bit that the pines are gone But I do care what they look like at dawn I’m not concerned that their life is drawn But what happens to the land without their brawn.” And so his journey goes, though his story’s old But a tale is not trite if it’s still being told