Up by the ledge overlooking
the valley, young oaks
grown now, past puberty,
with full bodies, new limbs,
and green fingers waving
in the wind, ask where
you are, but they know,
for oaks are wise.

The mountain lake,
with a necklace of pines,
and sun diamonds at noon,
still a mirror of moonlight
on warm summer nights,
whispers it misses you,
but the lake knows,
for lakes are wise.

My old leather bound Bible
sits on the book shelf
holding words of hope,
and a piece of time
from long ago-red roses,
pressed from the golden hours.
They ask where you are, I say-
fate, and sigh- perhaps fate is wise.

07/14/2002

Posted on 07/14/2002
Copyright © 2026 Jane E Pearce