Burried Treasures.. Poem by Connetta Jean

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.