When I was a boy, my dad taught me and my siblings ways to go iinto the woods and come out again without getting lost. This poem is about this teaching:
To find his way
back through the woods
where no path existed,
he'd bend down a
larger branch, or break
branches from a
dead tree.
If he'd do this,
As he made his
way along "his" trail.
He would only have to
look for them when
he returned.
He taught me this,
and would say he
he never had to worry
that I would get lost
in the nearby woods.
Remembering his
teaching was somewhat difficult
for a young boy
in pursuit of a
colorful butterfly,
or a fluffy brown
wild bunny.
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