Through Yellow Hills

Through yellow hills and gentle trees,

Below the white expanse of the northern

Sky when the sun dares to shine, there is

A place where time comes halting in its

Tracks, like a broken-down freight train.

Where fields conflate with setting suns

And sweet dreams waltz with breaking dawn,

A simple life, a simple house, and nothing

Breaks the sounding silence which only

The birds of paradise shall ever truly know.

Where dampened wood goes bending,

Twisting, never breaking, everlasting.

Through fallen heat and fits of snow

Persists its insurmountable strength,

For timeless land shall never flake.

Where rains falls softly, light falls dimly,

If the land is ever so blessed with

Sunlight, the grass will grow and the

Birds of paradise shall finally know

What Thoreau wrote of years ago.

Through yellow hills and gentle trees,

You might find paradise.