There Is a Place To Call Our Own Part 1
There is a place to call our own.
A sweet dwelling, with fields of daisies.
Golden perfume rising upward,
Spreading buds cloaked in sunny rays,
Only to impart us with
A romantic closing. Honey bees lazily
Buzzing upon the morning’s red mist,
Softly landing on the precious descending petals, drooping
With a kind of modest royalty. Below it the
Nurturing foundation for beauty. Rivers
Round the poet’s abode, flowing with
Paradise’s milk. Onward drifting as
they drifted millennia ago.
Carving the landscape at their very will,
Whatever the day might call forth.
Time was at a moment’s pause,
Breathing, too, with the seasons. Some
Magic veil of dew littered the lawn of
This kingdom, a mirror of the stars above,
The galaxies, too, containing Paradises of
Their own, with maybe a different palette of hues to tickle
Our expectations. Berry anthers fluttering in the gusty
Currents, sprouting their fruits, only to be
Plucked by some hungering creature of the land.
In the center of this magical valley, the abode
Of the dear Poet. Window
Frames carved from laden oak,
Cherry-wood floors spanning the porch.
A carmine-brick chimney jutting out
Towards the blue realms, releasing a gentle smoke,
Probably the exhaled breath of a small fire.
Some flock of larks soaring gallantly above,
Each hymn resonating through the undisturbed hills.
Quietness perpetrating the woods,
Silent nightfall bringing forth the moon,
Whose brightest light covers the valley
In a glittering visage. Twinklings on the river,
Whose sparkling nature tells of places
In some domain that is possibly just as fair,
Whose plains too might encompass beauty.
Green pastures flooding the land, their soft
Swaying motions breathing, and heaving
Upward towards the glossy sky, itself
An equal partner of the sea.
Both deep, and beautiful,
Filled with enchanting images and colors and
Movements and O! The Joy! The Joy! that thrives
In every crevice of every forest,
In every field of flowers,
In every glance, no matter the direction!
Simple pleasures everywhere, small creatures ambling
Onward with some destination in view,
Unknown to anyone peering at their innocence,
Perhaps to their home, who knows, it is certainly among
The possibilities.
Perhaps just to stride along in freedom,
Bestowed upon them by some foreign being.
All was in motion,
Never slumbering, for such time is never
Wasted on such silly things as sleep!
And all was grand, in lieu of its form.
Dancing in rapture with the wind,
|