The Cave by Glenn W. Dresbach

The Cave
by Glenn W. Dresbach

Sometimes when the boy was troubled he would go
To a little cave of stone above the brook
And build a fire just big enough to glow
Upon the ledge outside, then sit and look.
Below him was the winding silver trail
Of water from the upland pasture springs,
And meadows where he heard the calling quail;
Before him was the sky, and passing wings.

The tang of willow twigs he lighted there,
Fragrance of meadows breathing slow and deep,
The cave’s own musky coolness on the air,
The scent of sunlight … all were his to keep.
We had such places --- cave or tree or hill …
And we’re lucky if we keep them still.