Through eyes half closed
I see the mountain mist,
Rising slowly to greet the morning sun.

I see the morning glory
Twisting its way upward
Curling in circles around
Cornstalks, tall and green.

I hear the sound of the hoe,
My father's work in the garden,
His passion, his life.

I smell the fresh-tilled earth,
Sweet, and rich in the promise
Of bounty and harvest.

I feel the dampness
And wait for the sun to
Peer through and warm me.

I watch the squirrels
Dance in the trees,
Chattering a secret language.

I taste the greenness and wildness
Pungent in the overgrowth,
Inticing and satisfying on a blessed spring day.

I feel the ancient prescence
Of people who lived here
And worked the land before me.

I wish I lived then, with bow and arrow,
Silently moving through undergrowth,
Slipping silenting beneath majestic trees.

My mother calls me,with floured hands
Rolling the dough for buscuits
To bake in an old wood stove.

"Fetch me some water from the spring,
She says, and I grap the pail,
Filling it with water, pure and sweet.

I am content in the wild
Surrounded by mountains, shrouded in mist,
Harboring secrets I yearn to discover.

The big brown eggs need frying.