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My Home
Is never early to begin a late August morning.
Lungs, that refuse to slow the rush of merciless feet-
bare feet that run, run faster down stream,
among the river, separating yours and ours.
In chasing laughs we strike between the corn stalks
with sward-like leafs, taller than we knew.
And when the forest like adventure’s through,
we meet my mom and dad, and all crops-picking group.
The creeks are fun- in freezing water
we deep our feet to cool off the heat;
to catch a break by the old fig-tree,
from which begins the cru-
sweet-sour taste of cluster’ ripe.
Good morning, Mountain!-
The worn white coat you‘ve changed with summer crown.
It feels there isn’t sky above- I see no cloud.
Before we jet again through the expanse of poppy-land,
just let me touch for once the wind you guard so bound.
Whitewashed houses are snuggled with the sheep.
It’s time to race the sun till it’s gone.
Soft pillow of remembrance, please hold me in your lap.
Don’t let me run.
That we’ll do again, but not until tomorrow.
