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A Walk In The Footsteps of Rural America
By Thomas Allen Frith
AuthorHouse LLCCopyright © 2014 Thomas Allen Frith
All rights reserved.
* * *
The clouds move so freely about,
If to run and give a shout.
The wind thus blow them across the sky,
I watch and wave goodbye.
We do not know where they go
All we know is they are pushed as the wind thus blow.
They seem to grow high into the air,
Provides design and moves with flare.
One is white and one blue
Each tells you what they can do.
Some are friendly and tame at best.
They will give you fun and rest.
Some are bad and a scary sight,
Makes one go to bed with some fright.
Clouds can help the farmer so,
Make fruit and vegetables grow.
Clouds can produce damaging wind,
Hail and snow it can send.
Clouds may be beautiful to the sight,
Mixed with one flying a kite.
As the cloud grows and matures,
I do not know its intention for sure.
I watch as it passes by,
I lay and watch them in the sky.
* * *
Bright orange, yellow and colorful leaves,
Nature pulls fall out of its sleeve.
Beautiful valleys and silent hollers,
Span out in radiant color.
Mountains covered in sights of fall,
We try to take it in all in all.
A color scene hard to find,
Only in fall or left behind.
The October wind blow silently by,
The limbs and leaves and into the sky.
Leaves of red mixed within,
Only to turn and see them again.
Orange and yellow spread about,
I look below and begin to shout.
Oh wow! What a great scene,
Far sights that I once deemed.
I sit and observe the colors before me,
A carpet of color spread out for me to see.
Red, Yellow, orange and brown,
Spread out over the valley I found.
I take a mental picture in my mind,
Knowing again a scene never to find.
The cool air covers the vast valley below,
With colors of beauty in my mind, I know.
How the beauty can be describe,
I cannot say even with a bribe.
Beauty oh Beauty is the color display,
Various colors I describe if I may.
Red as a fire truck down the road is gone,
Yellow as the sun as the day moves on.
Brown adds to the artist color of array,
Green mixed in to this I see today.
Orange spreads out across the dale,
All mixed with a sight that leaves other things pale.
Rise up and walk away from the view,
Of the range of color and variety of hue.
I wish I could spend more time to see,
A view so beautiful that encourages me.
To take my time as I walk away,
Hoping to return and view another day.
* * *
On a cold winter morning I walk the road,
At the point of freezing I am told.
The white ground glistening it in the sun,
Maybe catch snowballs and have some fun.
There is not a single footprint pressed therein,
Just a nice shine and a small cold breeze of wind.
I take a step on the fresh white snow,
And on to my destination I do go.
As I look to the right, a rabbit I do see,
As it spies me and off it tries to flee.
I see him hop and jump in the air,
To get across the deep snow so fair.
Away he hops to get on his way,
Behind a tree and then a bale of hay.
I travel on down the road,
Feeling the depths of the chilling cold.
The trees limbs bend to the weight,
Of the snow on it, as it adds more flakes.
The weather is getting worse as I head along,
Trying to get away and back to home.
I struggle in the deep snow with each step,
I begin to think I need more help.
I am about to feel I had failed,
I hear a great yell as it welded.
My wife was wondering if I would make it,
She knew that I was able and fully fit.
Of course as the cold weather closed in,
She was wondering if I would win.
I see the light between the blowing flakes,
I struggle more with all it takes.
I am met with a warm hug that night,
I make the last step up each flight.
The stairs were frozen from the brisk cold,
The wind, the snow and all so bold.
Home I am, to be there at last,
I sit and warm and reflect on the past.
* * *
The misty fog upon the lake,
I look and memory sight I do take.
The light haze of drifting mist,
I shade my eyes with a half fist.
I scan the waters for signs of a trail,
Everything is misty and very pale.
I look for a way to get to the other side,
That path in the mist continues to hide.
I take a step adjusting my sight,
Not knowing if that decision is wrong or right.
I glare into the distant as far as I can,
Only with my eyesight as I do scan.
I see a few trees peeking out of the haze,
A pond of water creating a maze.
I step again to get a better sight,
Wonder if I should worry or begin to fight.
To myself I ask if I am lost,
I must continue at all cost.
I cannot give up on my flight,
Do I go straight or do I go right?
In far the distance, I see something like a stick,
What is that? I wonder as I stare at it.
It begins to glow across the lake,
Ah! A path. Do I try to make?
It gets clearer as I take each step,
Is this what I hope, something to help?
I finally can see the object clear,
A sight I want and love so dear.
The object is clear inside the mist,
Oh, it is my car I did miss.
* * *
Oh the sweet aroma I do smell,
An odor I recall very well.
Such a smell my mind spend on,
To memories that all are gone.
Maybe once or twice I can say,
That the smell is one if I may.
It's a preference over any others,
As my heart begins to flutter.
The memory of the smell I recall,
Is not the memory, I think, or at all.
You see the smell is one of favor,
And one I like and begin to savor.
It makes my mind begin to wonder,
As to the smell I do ponder.
Is it a smell of a beautiful spring flower?
Is it made from the grainy flour?
Maybe a smell for the garden outdoors,
Maybe one from cleaning the floors.
Can it be my wife's sweet perfume?
I wonder and can only assume.
Whatever it is that smells so sweet
It's a smell that cannot be beat.
* * *
The tree stands in the field all alone,
Trimmed and shaped in a fullness tone.
Standing so tall although it is actually small,
There to be seen by each and all.
A tree so green upon the snow,
Nice and pretty as it grows.
A tree that anyone would be proud,
Resting among the touching clouds.
The daylight shine from afar,
A shade is created but this par.
But this shade is special you see,
It shades you and me.
The tree stands so proud and tall,
To be enjoyed by one and all.
There are those who do not care,
They want the scenery to be empty and bare.
A bird has made it a home with a nest,
Maybe a robin with its red glowing breast;
Maybe a bluebird with feathers so blue;
Maybe just any bird, for that is true.
The tree stands there all alone,
It will be missed once it is gone.
The next generation doesn't see the same,
Trees are in the way and are to blame.
Progress is interfered by them all,
Down they come and hard they fall.
Not just one or two they say,
Wait till they are all gone someday.
A tree is needed, one does not see,
It is too late, if we don't let them be.
There is this one lone tree,
Looking lonely and a sight to see.
* * *
Across the valley in the misty day's air,
I see ghostly figures way over there.
Towering high are gray figures into the sky,
The images expands to be way up high.
Misty by fog and as quiet as can be,
The misty images spread out as far as I can see.
Behind the dam of the lake down the hill,
There flies a large bird with a big bill.
The air is thick, very moist and wet,
I walk out, wet I would get.
The scenery is of a perfect winter day,
But the snow is missing and held at bay.
If the ground was to covered with snow,
My image of winter will definitely grow.
Going back to the image I see,
Is it a grove of big oak trees?
Standing tall in the misty rainy sky,
A lone bird flies lazily by.
The scene is one as I sit and look out,
Sit warmly on my porch, which is no doubt.
I see through the pane window glass,
I see another bird fly past.
The misty scenery spreads out wide as far,
I spy. I ask, Is that a star?
Shining between the mist as the day light fades,
Into night as if it was made.
Stationary shining in the misty sight,
Shining its best and all its might.
Time passes without knowledge or care,
I sit on my porch just being there.
The ghostly figure still sitting there,
I watch through the misty air.
I do not want to leave such a winter sight,
I must; I do; get up and take my flight.
The images I see are just big oak trees,
And I leave them and inside I will be.
* * *
I sit in my swing upon my porch,
Wondering what relief from the summer scorch.
November rain pouring upon the ground,
To seek a place it may have found.
I watch the rain come gently down,
Although to catch upon my face a frown.
November Rain is actually rare,
Trying to get accepted as being fair.
I sit and watch the large rain drops,
Upon the sidewalk the drops goes flop.
November rain welcome so much,
Wishing it would help flowers and such.
An inch at first and then there was two,
I sit and then put on my shoes.
November rain may come a little late,
I cannot change its fate.
It seems as no end to be,
At least as far as I can see.
November rain is what it is about,
I begin to wonder and have my doubts.
I decide to go inside and let it rain,
Because it is now becoming a pain.
November rain is far too much,
As it hits my feet with its touch.
The cold and wet droplets hit my feet,
Only spring rain could it beat.
November rain is what it is about,
As I go in and enough I shout.
* * *
The morning was crisp and a little wet,
Not a day that one had met.
In the early dawn the sun shines dim,
I see it peeking on the rim.
The rain did come and now is gone,
Was it a shower or was I wrong?
The deck is wet with small puddles,
The chilly wind makes one want to cuddle.
It may be cold by what they say,
It will get colder during the day.
Will the rain turn to snow?
Let the geese be on the go.
To the south as they fly,
I see them rise into the sky.
It is a sign the winter is near,
This is weather for me and my dear.
She and I enjoy the cold,
It is another story to be told.
I go back inside to hide from the chill,
To gain my thoughts and my will.
I think about the day that may be,
I'm not sure if I do want to see.
I wonder in my head,
I decided to go back to bed.
* * *
Rain comes and rain goes,
I dress for the rain in my rain clothes.
When the rain has gone away,
It will be back another day.
As I look into the sky,
What is it that I spy?
Red, Blue and colors of gold,
Into an arc, it is mold.
I cannot say why it looks so good,
As I uncover my head from its hood.
I stop from my daily pace,
The image is shown upon my face.
I sit and stare at the sight,
Wishing that maybe I could take flight.
To travel upon the arc of red,
And to end at the pot in flower beds.
There it is so high in the sky,
A rainbow is what I spy.
Its colors so bright and bold,
But no flood will be I am told.
From side to side the colors show,
Into the sky in an arc it goes.
I now sit and watch the display,
As lightning flashes on this rainy day.
The dark blue clouds in the back,
A sound of thunder provides a crack.
All this in the background behind,
Where else would that be found?
A rainbow comes about,
Displays it color and gladly shout.
The rain is gone for now it seems,
As the sun shines upon it beams.
* * *
Listening to the sound on the roof,
Is it someone or Santa's reindeer hoofs?
It cannot be them because it is not time,
But to my window I try to find.
The noise I heard, I heard before,
Wondering what, I wish could I hear more.
Cause out my window I did see,
Rain pouring out of the sky with glee.
It is raining dogs and cats,
Inside safe and dry is where I am at.
A person out in this wet mason,
Will be soaked faster than soon.
As I watch the rain pour down,
I actually do not have a frown.
It was been weeks since it has rained,
The dryness has become a major pain.
I see the earth soak up the raindrops,
Did I see a fish fall and flop?
No I didn't see one do so,
But I did see the water go.
Down the hill and out the ditch,
If I could hold it and make a switch.
I would divert the flow of the land,
I need it to flow away from the sand.
Excerpted from Reflections Of by Thomas Allen Frith. Copyright © 2014 Thomas Allen Frith. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse LLC.
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