The Fall is over and winter is marching in...

Near Old Forge, NY

There is finality about fall,

All the hopes of summer have come to and end.

Spring is long gone with its whisper of promise as

Mother Earth has put on her dress of color;

 The color of the earth’s final show.

All that is left is the somber white of winter,

Its cold and windy sleep.

The season of death

For all that bloomed in spring,

That cannot comeback again.

A Small Piece of the Country and its Barns

A farm near Palatine Church

A Small Piece of the Country

I own a small piece of the country; 

It is hidden beneath this shirt, 

Out of eyesight, unable to seen, 

Not to be found, touched or heard.

It is winter in its somber white suit; 

It is fall in its vibrating colors; 

It is summer with its kiss of warm breezes;

It is spring and all that is new.

I own a small piece of the country; 

It is hidden from view, 

In remembered feelings and words, 

of all the friends I knew.

It is open like a window, 

Letting in the fresh country air; 

It is golden like the morning, 

When the sun warms me there.

It is dew upon the grass, In the morning fresh and new; 

It is the sky, the night of the full harvest moon.

I own a small piece of the country; 

It is hidden in my mind, 

Of the fine folk Who make up the country kind.

It is the farmer harrowing his field; 

It is the preacher holding together his small flock; 

It is the neighbor helping a neighbor; 

It is my friends and their warm hearts.

I own a small piece of the country; 

It is my own special part, 

I own a small piece of the country;

I keep it here within my heart.

The Country Grave Yard...a final resting place!

The Graveyard 

The town’s family tree lies here, 

Guarded by an old iron gate 

That creaks in the wind 

On the short ride it takes. 

Here generations rest together as a history, 

Total and complete. 

The cold head stones, 

moss covered and worn away, 

You gaze upon at your feet. 

Tranquil and secluded, 

On a hill beyond a glen, 

Safe from the bustle of the world 

And the noise of modern men. 

Honored, the ones not forgotten, 

For you, flowers bloom in spring; 

To the others less fortunate, 

Honored only when the church bell rings. 

A mourning dove cries for you, 

And the breeze warms your resting place. 

Those gone before us, 

Who look up at God’s face.