By David De Jong
Take me back to the tree line, over yonder river’s edge;
Where long pines grow for glory as their everlastin’ pledge.
Bristles rake the clouds, collectin’ their mornin’ draft of dew;
While sunrise pilots the horizon, upon its giv’n cue.
The air awakes and listens, for its piercin’ eagle’s cry;
Readin’ the river’s cipherin’, followin’ with hungry eye,
Defyin’ all laws of gravity, grinnin’ at the thrill,
Pickin a brown, or a rainbow, just cause he can at will.
A doe shyly emerges, saunterin’ to take a drink,
Then retreats to the shadows, disappearin’ in a blink.
Where her fawn lies hidden in the thatches, she’ll ne’er foretell,
While it sleeps in solace, under its watchful mother’s spell.
Heavens reflectin’ brilliance, in hues of amber and green,
Blues and silvers mingle, shimmerin’, boilin’ vats of steam.
Caught between a canvas and the stroke of a painter’s dream,
I feel an intrusion, upon this tranquil, sacred scene.
All the while the pines are sweepin’, callin’ with gentle swoon;
Should ever you choose to leave, it’d be, a moment too soon.