The house was long forsaken,

its wooden boards worn and burnished

to brown and silver hues.

On the prospect of a hill

it sat like an ancient sheepdog

keeping a diffident watch over the fields below.

In the valley and to the left,

autumn ready trees stood in clusters,

their dark branches bare and still.

From the gathering clouds, a shaft of light spearing down

spot lit one sapling still wearing leaves

kissed by Klimt colors of orange and gold.

In the center of the vale

a long and narrow basin of dirt and stones

stretched to the horizon where,

in spring, a crooked finger from the river beyond,

would probe curiously inward,

and lift the eyelids of hibernating life.

Below and right, looping strands of wire fencing

strung the undulating hills like beads

into a necklace of fir and pine.

Upon those earthy waves a running dog barked

at a southward flowing caravan of geese,

in whose wake would soon come

moon snapping frosts and fog blankets

from which the hilltops would peek,

toe-like, from the cloudy folds.

Twining down into the ground

I burrowed deep

to sleep.

Wildflower: Pen & Ink,   M. Taylor @ 1979



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