The lake is a myriad of rippling glass
On the mountains-fresh overnight snow
I'm reminded how precious this spot really is
Out of all of the places I go
On this first day of fall in the mountains
I'm a king in an old motorhome
I am poor-but I'm rich with the beauty
That I find in the places I roam
And now God is painting my mountains
In scarlett, in gold and in green
A reminder the seasons are passing
In a way that it always has been
And my seasons pass along with them
In a way that won't regenerate
But in memory they'll live along with me
'Til I pass through that last one-way gate!
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Reviews of "A King In An Old Motorhome"
Reviewed by ya mama (Reader)
Reviewed on October 8, 2003
i dig the concept of this poem, and it is well written.
Reviewed by Claywoman (Reader)
Reviewed on October 7, 2003
His throne is the world! John, this is lovely! Fall in cold places is breath-taking! My first vision of my rez was in the fall and the colors were dazzling! Here, the leaves turn a sickly yellow and the next day brown with no lovely colors inbetween..
What is this power Autumn has to inspire such poetry more than all other seasons combined? It's my favorite season to write about. But I can only write about Autumn during Autumn! Nonetheless, I immensely enjoyed your poem. One question though. If you're the king, where is your throne?
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