White mist arises on early morn,
Over pastures cool and green.
Lily’s of the field send off their sweet essence of spring.

Jonathan stands alone gazing across his land of six generations gone by.
He smells the morning, he hears the birds as they greet the coming day and a soft gentle peace grace’s his mind.

Many a toil lay before him,
Struggles unique, some not so kind.
Yet he will, oh yes he will survive.
For by grit and determination he will by the peace of his gentle sweeping land thrive.

Glancing now across the pasture green,
A long and desperate ash from his cigarette lands upon his knee:
Still he smiles for he has his land,
The land which has been passed from one to another in a sometimes unknown plan.

For now contentment fills his mind.
Because he is now the caretaker of a land of secrets buried time.

J. Allen Wilson ©
4/20/2014