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
Wildflower: Pen & Ink, M. Taylor @ 1979