Woody my friend,
has met his end,
amidst leaves and briars so cold.

Never to pound,
the woods to resound,
looking for his next luscious meal.

He’ll never again spy,
as I pass him by,
to cut down a tree or two.

Our talks I’ll so miss,
as he filled me with bliss,
just seeing that red head of his.

While others do fly,
away in the sky,
as I invade their sanctum so rude.

Woody was there,
as near as my chair,
cut from a tree stump I hewed.

So goodbye my friend,
my heart you do rend,
I’ll think of you each morning dew.

Dedicated to Woody the pileated woodpecker.
Copyright 2012, John Paul Mueller