Burried treasures…

 

at the top of the hill
above daisys blooming..
is a tiny graveyard..
surrounded by
a rusty fence..
the gate has no road….
one must walk the path.
from the meadow below
it seems
to touch the clouds…
There a poet sleeps
on pillows of words
100 years
of buried time…
I go there
hoping to hear
the words
lingering
in the wind..
that speak only
to those
who  hear
such things…
where the wind
whispers thoughts…..
long forgotten.

picture and poem by connetta

~ by connetta on October 26, 2007.