Pamela Hirte

Rolling foothills open wide as a lovers waiting arms.

Cedars line the path; cones drop kissing limestone soil.

Mourning doves coo merrily in the meadow,

wings the color of smoke.

 

Hugging the bank, black willow caresses the river,

leaves spin and float to a secret hideaway.

Wild turkeys traverse the territory along the woods.

Mornings return brings reverence to this place.

 

I breathe in the richness of fertile farmland.

There is liveliness in the air.

So pure, so perfect­ these things make

the stirring beauty of this land.

 

Pamela D. Hirte

 

Published by:  Common Threads