I sit in a high-back willow chair
beneath an old battered apple tree.
A huge cotton wood offers shade
where the spindly-branch apple fails.
I hear the sonorous call of a bull frog.
Birds busily gossip, while ducks argue.
A brace of goats call out to me.
A hooked-beak rooster proclaims his mettle,
and hens scratch the earth and ignore him.
The breeze is slight. The air is moist.
Butterflies dance before me.
Myriad shades of green dapple
the bucolic scene.
I am drawn into reverie.
Why did I leave this home of my youth?
Because, because — I needed more.