drizzle fails to describe the soothing sound
of gentle water falling on wet brown leaves;

rhythm is not enough word to tell how,
like clock ticking, it is a portal of sound where
time stands still. In this slow moment

I live forever.
Let me hold it.

Look out the little loft window
at the old white house across the field.

Look at the wooded hills rising behind it.
September fields blaze with black-eyed-Susans

and golden rods as afternoon sun casts an amber hue,
turning the woodshed into an enchanted cottage.

The pear tree, standing alone, glows magical.
My memories are like that tree,

rooted in the rolling hills of this place.