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.