These are my acres no one can take from me-
land of the pines, waterfowl on this lake…
laps of golden sand drifting, I can see-
mornings of sun blinded hours in each wake.
Crackling needles heard under my feet,
scents of pine cones filling my plate-
this is the land for which I begin to yearn
here by the beach, make no mistake,
there is no gold or silver in these veins
of this my land, but beauty journeys deep.
In the pines soil lies the tangled skeins
of late columbine blossoms pale as sleep
while through my eyes feeling happy and free
burns all the slow wisdom of eternity.
