Close to the end of the woodland path,
Shortly before you join the thoroughfare,
There
I ran my hands across the tree.

It’s rough bark kindled in me
A child’s wish to an impression make
Of that tree, and to take
It away with me.

Had I crayons, perhaps I would have captured that bark
On pristine
Paper, creating a clean
Bark rubbing
Leaving the tree as before.

Yet as I stood
Close to the edge of that wood
I thought how one can neither restore
Nor rub away
Yesterday.