From flat lands of the high plains,
That stretch and go forever,
To gentle, rolling, treeless hills,
Dissected by a river.
Golden fields of rippling wheat,
Dancing beneath sun,
Tended by the watchful eye,
Of Farmer till itís done.
Ever wary of the storms,
That with one mighty blow,
Can dash the hopes of those who wait,
And wipe out crops that grow.
In winter, itís a barren land,
With cold that grips the soul,
Relentless marching of a sun,
That lacks warmth in its glow.
But spring comes early to the plains,
As Jonquils poke their heads,
Faked out by warming of the sun,
That rousts them from their beds.
Till finally once again its Spring,
The hills all come ablaze,
With colors that are pleasing,
Still this is one more phase.
For summers can be stifling,
With strong hot winds that blow,
So man, and beast and even crops,
Assume a pace thatís slow.
Yet this is
A place that beckons me,
For in itís starkness I still find,
It has itís own beauty.
© 2003 Loree (Mason) OíNeil
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