The Old Lady Who Lived In The Bushes

There was an old lady, with a wishing well.
She lived in the bushes, from stories they tell.
A little cottage garden, carnations she grew.
Stories they say that may be just true.

I believe, though, and I walked down
Day by day through smoldering forest ground
Till the forest stopped me bare
Branches hindered me, and fabric tears.

There, days numbered weeks, and weeks turned to years.
Or maybe not, but counting numbers, this my fear.
Without many a standing hair
And hearing God in words unfair

We grew up, and with life we bear.