david lessard

(september fourteenth, nineteen forty-one / gardner, massachusetts)

A New England Love


He loved the woods,
that ran for endless miles
under ever-changing skies -
the brooks and the streams
that laughed down the
hillsides -
hidden by trees and bushes -
nestled among big oaks,
majestic elms,
gracious maples
and white-barked birches -
He loved the air
that was so sweet,
that was like water,
quenching his thirst.
Cool, warm,
hot or cold -
It was satisfying.
The dirt roads
running aimlessly
over the mountains -
calling adventure
seekers to travel them.
The mountains,
while not as Grand as
the Rockies or as
Splendored as the
Sierras, nonetheless,
were inviting.
Friendly, not intimidating.
Old pals, not forbidding
strangers.
They shouted 'Climb Us! '
And he did. Catching
the breezes as they
passed over the
ridges.
He loved the seasonal changes.
Autumn...on fire, the trees
burned bright against
the dark evergreens and the
peaceful view of the
ocean of sky.
Winter, changing the shape of things
to suit her mood. Hiding familiar
places. Coating everything
white and lovely.
Spring, that Al Jolson song,
April Showers, playing
over and over again in
his head. The art of
trying to get out of one's
dirt driveway in March.
Summer. The sultry
days of leisurely swims
and warm toes encrusted in
sand-filled beaches,
dodging cow-piles in
the open pastures.
Though gone away, he
never was away;
He could return whenever
he wished,
in his mind.
To today and yesterday
he could return...
and tomorrow, he had
with him always.

Submitted: Monday, June 15, 2009

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