The wild golden ragwort and daises had cropped up
blooming on the edge of the woodlands babbling brook.
I stopped to take a look at their fresh new colored dye
The birds were singing around me in the thick brush
filling up the high noon cup of that suited me to a tea
The brook was flowing over a tiny dam of smooth stones
making a musical peace in the woodlands open home
I stopped to look and listen to its flowing masterful peace
as the flowing tiny brook dam band played the shapes of the stones
out where the wild daises and golden ragwort call home
I left with my wild child roots still intact, the ones that called me
here and places such as that and the one that keeps calling be back
The Call of the Wild
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