Poetry

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Across from my homestead of youth's yesterday
just very few steps,….not a stone's throw away,
stood hilly acres of trees and tall grass…
in childhood my haven, now just my past.
Those hills were my Sherwood and Robin was I,
with the zing of my bow each arrow would fly.
On pieces of cardboard we'd slide down the slopes,
and scurry back upwards like young antelopes.
I can still hear the crows in the trees,…
the rustle of tall grass stirred by the breeze.
The scents and the sounds are with me to stay
alive in my memories even today.

Up to our tree-house on ropes we would climb,
escaping pursuers in the slightest of time.
We'd be on safari or soldiers in war,
each day different than the one before.
And after the fall of a deep, heavy snow
my footprints were first to wonderland's show.
the bushes and brush laden heavy with white
transformed into images strange to my sight.
Soon with our sleds poised for the thrill,
we comrades would gather atop of the hill
a hundred yard downhill, straight, speeding ride
over the terraces, through trees we'd slide

And when the streetlights would signal day's end,
we'd head for our homes from the land of pretend
amid scurry and scramble not to be late
to cozy warm houses and food on a plate.
Strange, these remembrances are so vivid now,
perhaps I'll relive them someday and somehow.
Maybe I'll walk those hills once again
and hear the trees whisper… "where have you been?"
Would, that upon the last breath I take,
the first steps on Heaven's journey I'd make,….
across from my homestead of youth's yesterday
just very few steps,….not a stone's throw away.

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