by Lisa M Tidrow
Friday, July 26, 2002
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The moonís reflection shimmered on the water
Like an image of a mother and her daughter
Ripples distort the moonís reflection
And I know Iím standing at the edge of perfection
Distant shadows seem to scatter
Time has stopped here, it doesnít matter
At first you might mistake the grove as silent
But that is because there is no din thatís violent.
Instead you can hear the owlís gentle hoot,
And the bluebirds singing not unlike a flute.
If you listen closely you can hear the trees,
Whispering together on the evening breeze.
You can hear the faint wind as it whistles,
Moving the grass and leaves and thistles.
In fact, close your eyes and you will hear,
The gentle footsteps of unobtrusive deer.
You will hear a veritable symphony of sound,
In the paradise of nature which is just profound.
You can see the yellow moon, full and aglow,
Casting itís tranquil spell on everything below.
Blackened trees leaned over the moonlit night
Did you ever see an evening so bright?
Itís like Eden before they ate the forbidden fruit,
Can you see the robin in his double breasted suit?
Can you see yourself living here in this heavenly place,
But then you lower your head, your heart filled with disgrace
For you feel guilt in the knowledge that people will come,
And with bulldozers will try to get this grove to succumb.
How can man ever hope to tame this land?
Donít you know it was never ours to command?