The woods were breathing, circling,
But full of hope, not horror,
When G.P.S. was not a thing
And I, a young explorer,
Was wandering the woods. It’s strange:
I can recall the feeling,
But cannot find it anymore.
It’s like some sort of ceiling
Is blocking out the light above.
It’s trapped, but I can’t free it —
For when we think we “know” what’s there,
We can no longer