Ancient sounds heard from a
tiny house nestled in the green,
among tall oak and slithering
vines, not fancy, snug.

Scent of pine and heather graced
from beyond a pond spread with
water lilies, ignites a feeling,
a sense that burned long ago.

Music casts echoes, as words of
prayer kneel to be obeyed.
Scent of bread baking stimulates
my senses, arouses my thoughts.

I doze beneath magnolia, dream escapes
me, as I breathe the surrounding stillness.
Knowing this dream will never be recollected,
I never lose sight of the thrill.

Far off, mountains peer above, beaconing
me to make the climb. Unaware of the outcome,
I journey upward, growing cold with
each step.

Now,
memories linger in my soul
until I am smothered from their
nostalgia.

I touch the center of my sorrow,
and know that here is where I was born,
here is where I die.

2001 Orania Hamilton
(All Rights Reserved)
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Past Featured Author


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