So wild like the wild bluebells,
Which once surprised this summer of cool light,
For the rains so soft and delicious,
In this forest air,
Up on Burnaby Mountain wet and not dry enough,
Below in these woods so green and lush,
The pink hearts so brutally hidden away,
Are protected for the timid light shines so spare,
We find just the last bleeding hearts to bare,
It's the leaves on these fresh trails that swallow our treads,
And noisy red-headed wood peckers mock the silence,
They'll call out defiantly and punish the trees with hard chisel-like bills,
And bore and whittle the cedars that squeal with each jab,
Songbirds sing for the beauty of this summer day,
As the soaring golden butterflies dance above all,
Drift and fall and rise and tease us as they please us,
Yet, once more these late bleeding hearts so petite,
With their wild nature trust us and greet.
