By Ada Norton
Believe me now, beneath the CROUS
A forest lays below those rooms,
You’ll find no soil, no pine or spruce,
But I assure you, there life blooms!
I swear to you it does exist,
A little habitat indoors,
From muttering rains, to whisper mist
To cacophonous downpours.
Two pillar trunks hold up the sky,
Its trees are not the standard make,
Their roots are shallow, their rain, dry,
Yet their leaves still rustle-shake.
Winds blow through wooden routes,
Creatures there walk keen or meek,
Its grasses sway, its plants grow fruits,
Its birds hum tunes, all unique,
And what a chorus to behold!
A crowing at its center-strong.
A click-clacker when all is told!
Well-rehearsed is the rooster’s song,
The small-birds lean and listen in,
In flocks they mumble and mutter,
From their thoughts, a quiet din,
Their paper wings aflutter,
The clock’s beasts hurry down,
They gather every couple hours.
Every color, every gown,
Together, the forest’s flowers.
You could not catch them in a snare,
Their calls are quick, to kin and kind,
They settle fast and tightly there.
Their mulch is matter of the mind.
The thicket’s standard hold no sway,
Its life does every color wear,
Its land is red, tan and gray,
Yet still I find, I like it there.
So when you next rush to your seminar,
And throw down your bag to get it done.
I invite you; keep your mind ajar,
See the forest, in Amphitheater 1!
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