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.
Birds a singin’ in de trees,
Skiters buzzin’ in de breeze,
Turtles sunnin’ on de logs,
Pay no ‘tention to de dogs.
Rabbit, gator, possum, too,
Just to name some of de view.
Swamp’s alive with all of dem’s,
Soft moss hangs on cypress limbs.