Teresa Dearing Poems
Walk softly ‘cross these hallowed hills,
Wake not the spirits of dark chills.
As night falls ‘cross these harvest fields,
Where corn and soy, gave up their yields.
Fog now sends out her drifting hand,
To touch and chill the lowly man.
Light now a shrouded silver mist,
The moon griped in its mighty fist.
For in this land the ancient sleep,
Secrets kept the mysteries deep.
Walk softly ‘cross this hallowed keep,
Lest those spirits seek your soul to reap.
Flags of flying geese, waving in the sky,
Heralding autumn, with cries loud and high.
Green leaves turning red, orange, and yellow,
Filtered sunshines nice, warm, and mellow.
Harvest time comes and goes, like a favored guest,
Farms look like patch work quilts, now laid out to rest.