A long walk home
Taking my time
In no hurry
Watching leaves rustle in the trees
Listening to a whippoorwill’s call
A cool breeze brushes my face
Blowing hair into my eyes
In the distance,
Chapel bells ring
My path becomes overgrown
The woods grow quiet
The sky darkens
Storm clouds move in
Silence
By Susan Dianne Smith
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Sunday, October 14, 2007
A Country Retreat
The wind blows hair into my eyes,
as I hike through the woods towards the hilltop.
My feet crunch on fallen leaves with each step.
Ahead, I see squirrels scamper away,
escaping up nearby oaks.
The crisp autumn air makes me shiver.
I pull my sweater tighter around me.
Multi-colored leaves float silently to the ground.
Enormous moss covered rocks
jut out from rugged cliffs.
Trees with slender branches
reach up towards the heavens.
The screech of a hawk overhead startles me.
I catch my breath.
A little further, an old wooden bridge crosses a stream.
Slowly walking the weather-worn boards,
I look down at the crystal water.
A small frightened frog jumps in,
creating ripples that spread quickly
then disappear.
In the distance,
a stone house peeks through the pines.
Willowy threads of smoke
rise up from the chimney,
leaving wispy words across the sky.
Somewhere ahead, the wind whistles
from the valley below.
Reminding me how far I’ve come.
by Susan Dianne Smith
as I hike through the woods towards the hilltop.
My feet crunch on fallen leaves with each step.
Ahead, I see squirrels scamper away,
escaping up nearby oaks.
The crisp autumn air makes me shiver.
I pull my sweater tighter around me.
Multi-colored leaves float silently to the ground.
Enormous moss covered rocks
jut out from rugged cliffs.
Trees with slender branches
reach up towards the heavens.
The screech of a hawk overhead startles me.
I catch my breath.
A little further, an old wooden bridge crosses a stream.
Slowly walking the weather-worn boards,
I look down at the crystal water.
A small frightened frog jumps in,
creating ripples that spread quickly
then disappear.
In the distance,
a stone house peeks through the pines.
Willowy threads of smoke
rise up from the chimney,
leaving wispy words across the sky.
Somewhere ahead, the wind whistles
from the valley below.
Reminding me how far I’ve come.
by Susan Dianne Smith
Inspiration From Monet
Soft delicate pastels Create lilies on ponds
Japanese bridges span
Motionless waters
Fields of poppies
Sway in the wind
Velvety mist
Blankets the garden
Pale gentle hues
Float on canvas
Elegant willow stands
Within muted tones
Hushed purples and blues
In harmony
Hypnotize
Irises whisper
And wink
In conspiracy
I watch
Spellbound
by Susan Dianne Smith
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