Share this poem:
Enter the verification code :
Nostalgia ain't what it used to be
Writing Poetry is like standing naked with your thoughts exposed
It's nice to find yourself. Anywhere.
New England.White steeples over branches.White houses made of woodAt home among the trees.Tall grass and meadows, Stonewall homes to scampering things.Sound of cars, grass-cutting people, IntrudingIn quiet calm Connecticut.