Old man resting

I have always loved the woods and what they hold, so this poem is dedicated to that love:


                          Asleep
                              in the shadows
                                             from moonlight,
                          the old man,
                             like the mushrooms,
                                             seems
                          to have sprouted
                             from the soil.
                                             His shallow breathing
                          makes
                             breeze-like movements
                                             similiar to the
                          fronds of ferns
                             nearby.  A whip--o--will
                                              calls,
                          letting all  in the forest
                             know he is there.
                                              I listern and wonder if
                          someday, I, too,
                              will spend my night
                                             in the arms of Morpheus
                          surrounded by ferns.