I took a walk one day in a quiet, rural area and wrote this poem.

We meet here
in this place of
soughing wind.
Leaves of trees,
they rustle.
Dry grasses,
they shimmer in
the light.

I come alive to
step as a deer
I am
to feel as a youth
I am
to dream of myself
in better days,
these days
coming anew.

Why no one calls
or sends their cries
unto the wind,
I never know
with, this,
my mere mind,
nor in my eyes,
but wonder
in another realm,
wandering
with the stars,
dreaming
of the time
I was young
and sought out
quiet places.

Yes, that is where I live,
in quiet places,
like pages blank,
not for what
has yet to be written, but
for what yet lies
ahead...
a blank slate I
can bring to my heart to,
once again,
write there its song.