Monday, July 26, 2004

Missing the Hills

Today is one of those days where, when I look out my window I miss seeing the summer green hills of my native home.  Here I live on a street and look out my window upon houses and sometimes people moving about.  Back Home I lived on a creek beside a road and right beside one of my beloved Kentucky mountains.  I was surrounded by them on every side it seemed.  The road made a twitchy space between them, following the shallow creek as it burbled along its path of unknown ages.
I miss my hills, my Kentucky mountains.  Sometimes, like today, more than others. 
By Henrietta Asher Handy
Copyright (c) 2004 by Henrietta Asher Handy

In the spring, covered in blossoms,
My old friends speak to me
Of times passed
Futures coming
Worries gone.

In the summer, covered in varying shades of green,
My old friends speak to me
Of joys near, just around the bend,
And passing moments
To be savored like the perfect morning,

The moment
The moment when
Nothing is impossible
And nothing is quite as dank and dark.

In the fall, dappled with patchwork quilts,
My old friends speak to me
Of Time’s existence
How it is present, simmering,
Cooling down.

In the winter, covered white,
My old friends speak to me
Of slumbering sad
Waiting for the better times to come
Just shy of distant.

Do not reprint without my permission.  Thank you.

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