Down by the meadow
In a darken forest floor,
there was a little man,
who lived in the ancient oak of lore.
I visited him in my childhood,
talked with him at great lengths.
He always made me laugh
at the tales of fairy dance.
But as the days grew shorter,
and winter set in,
I found I did not visit him
not as much as then.

It was by chance the other day,
as I walked with my children
that we came upon the meadow
and the darkened forest floor.
The trees were not as green,
not as young as I remember.
And there I saw hanging
through twisted vine, the little broken frame.
The ancient oak decayed,
its branches dead and white.
And my little friend was no longer,
as such was my youthful ways.

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