The Woods They'Ve Never Known Poem by Robert Rorabeck

My heart stops cold in a naked blue glade-
Even the naked sky is cold, and whatever imagination lies
In the sky,
It is being taken away: as streams run the other way, taking
Down the metamorphosis of a springtime
Birthday
While the slender white towers of this boreal sorority
Sway,
Eventually losing their golden arbor to the stream,
While the silent bodies in her soul fight to climb
Up the other way-
And some prince of kind, newly metamorphosed,
Stands upon the saddle,
And thrusts the horns that used to be a crown up
Toward the sky- there airplanes sojourn filled with
Goddesses- where fires and foxes leap from
Each other,
Eager for recognition from the woods they’ve never known.