by James Mee

It’s found in every season

a beauty beyond measure.

In the shadows of Green Mountains

we see its soulful pleasure.

Hers is the light of legend

shimmering on these lakes.

She glistens in December

while falling with snowflakes.

Her rivers share their swimming holes,

band concerts on the green,

stone fences visit hay fields

criss-crossed by farm machines.

Her valleys deep, pastures wide,

She’s what we know by heart.

And with these pillared mountains

it is eternal art.

The foliage of autumn,

her winters white and deep,

bring each coming spring to life,

rouse summer from its sleep.

What reasons make this place our home?

Whose seasons make us whole?

Whose beauty shaped in twilight’s hope

bring knowings to the soul?


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