High in the Boughs of Ancient Trees

My soul longs for high mountain fields

meadows of wildflowers rivers run through

gentle rolled hills of wild green hues

broken by outcropped surmountable stones.

Compare the whims of heart songs to a dream?

The flightiest of all imaginings.

Perhaps instead the song of love should be

the mighty branch of tall deep-rooted trees.

By morning time a dreamer's whim has passed,

by noon the very memory will fade.

And once the night returns to finish day

the dream is well and truly flown away.

Seek love that lives in more than simple dreams.

Build it upon a taproot reaching deep,

with sturdy limbs and high wind-tested trunk

you know will stand the gales of life with ease.

Your dreams are merely temporary light,

an image of the way your life may be.

But nothing built on nought but dreams can last;

build love high in the boughs of ancient trees.

The mist covered paths of my youth

Belied myriad versions of truth.

But one path was clear,

It remains ever dear,

That cheese-wiz is groddie; forsooth!

My Valley