Memory

And with this rhyme will I but chime
A sweeter memory…
Of painted hills and bright green tills
And sun-struck ivory,
And with this word I do put forth
The pleasures of my sight
’Cross curving courses carved in crumbs
Of ancient earthy might;

And with each drop on every stop
My ink recounts for me,
The clouds that danced, the winds that pranced
On hilltops, proud and free…
And with each treetop crowned in rust
My girlish spirit rose
Past precious peaks perched cheek-by-jowl
Nestled in calm repose;

And as I drove along this grove
The mountains called to me —
A call so wild, my inner child
Burst forth with willing glee!
And with this rush, my soul did gush
And giggle furtively,
Choosing childish charms over chains
Imposed most drearily.