Growing by the cobblestone

path


is a little patch of flowers

Bending gracefully in the gentle breeze

Small and violet with hearts of

gold

It’s hard to see but if you look

closely

A dozen of them are not purple at all

But blue

bonnet shields two chestnut

braids from the warm medallion in the sky

Strong freckled hand holds

a bucket full of bright

berries

Two bare feet

listen for the silver noon calls of the kitchen


Patter home to

The music of the countryside is

the quiet

of the perfect air

Flight of the butterfly

Creak of the open wood gate


Rustle of the empty brush

Which is home to nothing

Or something -- a rabbit? --


and everything all at once --- for the country

Is everyone’s home