My Latest Poem

[rivermom]

LMAO!!! I just re-read my poem and it's missing my last part. OH my goodness. I crack myself up at times/ I didn't copy the second page of my document.

Ok - here is the entire poem, including the end. What's a poem w/out the end. Ladies, I am surprised you didn't ask "where's the end".

So sorry ladies. That's me, half minded at times.



Eight Bales Of Hay


Taking a dirt road, winding and turning
A silent sigh, a breath taken
Eyes not needing to see
Exactly knowing the special path
Leading to eight bales of hay.

Feeling the road underneath
It brings you alive
Breathing the air, lined in dust
A smile covers the heart
Taking each twisting turn slowly.

Moving forward, revealing its truth
Looking back an angel follows
Wings protected in steel rushing
Anticipating, she follows willingly
Leading to eight bales of hay.

This place is magical, singing
If you stop and listen you will hear
Echo?s of dreams being made.
Reaching out, surrounding tightly captured
Selfishly taken for our own.

The horses whisper
Knowing the secrets told
Carrying our dance, each step with grace.
A pounding force never hesitating
Patiently waiting,, following
Leading to eight bales of hay.

Every direction lies beauty
Embellished streaks of sun on our backs.
Bittersweet thoughts ring true
Not escaping our minds,
Stories told to few.

Smiles embraced with a friend
Sharing life?s similar passion
Each understanding a different path
Leading to eight bales of hay.

For a moment time has stopped
Captured by a tear or a smile.
A story told taking a journey
Making it each our own.

Our destination lead by the heart
Being drowned with sips of life.
Holding onto separate meanings,
It?s the same path we take
Leading to eight bales of hay.




Never wanting to let go
Finding more reasons to stay.
We take just one more dance,
Another foot print left on the ground.

What has been found and touched
More than what we came for
Our very own special path,
Leading to eight bales of hay.


Not alone nor crowded
Pastures giving space, an open view.
Sights telling the story,
Etched in the emerald hills.

Leaving behind the essence
Turning around for one last glimpse
Longing for another day, our hopes once again
Leading to eight bales of hay.