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Poetry: A Place Called Home

Out of the Sandbox

By Gloria D. Nyhart

The suns rays bounced across the water,
Stretching throughout the wooded scenery,
Trees shake in the cool breeze,
Snow will soon cover their dead leaves.
Birds grow silent as migration begins,
The rolling green green hills cover the valley,
Snow soon to cover their beauty.
Pumpkins, corn, and farmland stretch for miles,
The children laugh and play,
Running through the woods in a cat and mouse chase.
Come time to turn in for the night,
Owls and coyotes can be heard,
Crickets chirp like song birds,
And fireflies dance until the break of dawn.
This place and all its beauty,
This place and all her glory,
This place is a place I call home.

Photo from Flickr creative commons: linked.

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