The Clearing Poem by Peter Cloutier

You enter the woods,
through that beaten path,
the sun is raining down,
giving the plant life a bath.

You continue walking through,
following the dirt trail,
creatures are lurking about,
and you just want to bail.

The path begins to end,
you attempt to make your own,
wanting to turn back,
after hearing that dreadful moan.

You feel like turning back,
yet feet keep moving forward,
you wish you hadn't picked the path,
which everyone has preferred.

Stamina's draining out,
like a jug of water turned upside down,
you finally reach a clearing,
which no one else has found.

Birds are chirping overhead,
like little angels in the sky,
no one else has been here,
of this I wonder why.