Here

Phillip Brown

The quiet houses rest,
Nestled in a hillside
Mottled with green and gold.

Here,
Dawn is silent and still.
Spring moves about quietly
Waking the sun
With a kiss.

The morning light
Crests the frosted mountains
And shines into the valley,
Beaming across orchards
That smell of cut, green leaves and
Warm, damp earth.

Here,
Summer days play
Long into the evening
When the rust colored sky dims
And turns a faded purple.

Children run barefoot
Through the cool, springy grass,
Capturing fireflies and laughter
In Mason jars.

Apples and cherries, apricots and peaches
Drink in the rich sunlight.
The supple boughs bend beneath
The weight of the sun-ripened fruit.

Here,
Autumn is bright and crisp
Delicate as the leaves underfoot.

Many hands pluck the fruit
And pile it in large, cardboard boxes
Stacked at corner fruit stands.

Foreign hands buy the fruit,
And the boxes are empty
When the air blows colder and
The sunlight shines weaker.

Here,
Autumn fades away,
And is covered by Winter snow.

The quiet houses rest,
Nestled in a hillside,
Tucked between thick, white folds.

Lights from small windows
Glow in the deep night,
Echoing memories of sun-ripened fruit

And fireflies.