The Secret Field of Carolina Dreams

The Goldenrods of yellows glint dance in morning’s sun, and sway in time to a silent tune.

Field Larks spread their wings; lifted ever higher across the silent meadows of my simple past.

Words from my heart fail to speak upon ears that may hear and become eternally lost on an early autumns wind.

I sit and stare daring yet to still dream;

A hawk soars overhead in falls blue sky.

I close my eyes; I hear upon the wind as angels sing.

Somber recollections chase with the wind the songs of my soft past.

This meadow, if not for just this day becomes my refuge from life’s lot cast.

A small deer at meadows edge stands rigid; he is looking at me, and I at him.

He walks closer now; seeking to understand the figure in the meadow that he does not understand.

I smell the approaching days of winter’s shadowy call, and feel its creeping coldness in my bones.

The aloneness of this day steals against this wayfarer’s soul; the solitude; the silence, the need to be whole.

Soon I must leave this secret field of lost Carolina dreams, but this morning, this day, I communed with God…I saw the deer…the hawk…the goldenrods of fall, and I heard the angels sing.

J. Allen Wilson © 9/28/2009