A Landscape of Verse
A brook in the city flows soft and clear,
as a minor bird sings a solemn tune,
past a cabin in the clearing, where dreams appear,
Its notes a sharp pitch beneath the moon.
A boundless moment on a hillside thaw,
a cliff dwelling guards its ancient lore,
a considerable speck, life’s smallest awe,
while a girl’s garden blooms evermore.
A late walk through snow-patched lanes,
Asking for roses, a fleeting chance,
A line-storm sings a song through rains,
A peck of gold in each fleeting glance.
Blueberries ripen only in a sunlit day,
yet bereft, the sky wears its winter shroud,
Acquainted with the night, beneath the cloud,
the birches sway in their silvery display.
A question lingers, a prayer in spring,
a soldier’s star rests in a stoneboat’s care,
as a minor bird sings and the hillsides ring,
a servant to servants breathes in country air.
So come in, dear wanderer, and take your rest,
In the poetry of landscapes, nature’s bequest.
WoPoLi 
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