The trees are waving to me in the wind,
Grasses undulating with bodies sinned.
The water's winking catches my eye,
Fanned by wind and clear blue sky.
I must escape the surf's incessant roar,
To the murmuring brook's sensual lure.
To mountain tops that I most covet,
Sweating to reach the cool white summit.
Now, nestled in her forest deep,
I close my eyes and try to sleep.
Until the wolf's lonely call,
Tells me that I must prowl.
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My Place
Copyright 2003 © Ronald W. Hull
12/28/03