Green Mountains covered in winter ice
unmoved by the tumbling river below
that twists itself over boulders left
long before the snow.
A narrow country road, it snakes
a route beside the stream,
winding and weaving, high and low
mimicking each fickle slope-
a tableau fit for dreams.
Gabled rooftops protrude the icey veil
revealing saltboxes having tallowed the road-
motley structures huddled in clusters
as if to stay warm
from the stinging cold.
Neither buildings tall or showy or many
(yet poignant in their stories centuries told)
nor bustling streets chockablock with neon disturb
the peaceful lanes which shape
this village frozen in time.
Who should live in this place
time has forgotten?-
a scene reminiscent
of a Grandma Moses painting
of a quaint New England town fast asleep,
whose dreams are contagious to every dreamer,
that tug at your heartstrings to stay,
that make you want to linger.
Without regret, I'll leave
a part of me here-
dreams of a simpler life perhaps
or the hope for a World more serene
with kindness and love for all to show-
to stay here long after
my footprints
in the snow.
Copyright 2008 Francis D. Daniels
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