The sun is high, the skies are bright,
I walked along the trail this morn;
snow atop the hills...a lovely sight,
just like a new day had been born.
The air was sharp and crystal clean,
the breezes blowing soft and cool;
the landscape was a pastel scene,
and God's hand, the artist's tool.
Willow Lake spread out it's face,
water's depths, are now diminished;
our long drought has left it's trace,
with the seasons almost finished.
Still the view is pleasant to the eye,
the geese and ducks swim out or wade;
and weathered stalks of grass do lie,
in this creation that's been made.
The morning's warmth is gaining fast,
I turn and head back, to my car;
and what was now... does not last,
what was close, now seems too far.
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Comments about this poem (Images. by David Lessard )
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