Sometimes
in the morning,
when the sky is a deep pink;
and the frost is melting on the soft green grass,
and you take a moment to breath,
you can feel the life of the town,
and the age of the trees.

Sometimes
the sun light fills every color and,
birdsong overcomes every other noise.
Walking outside in the summer is,
walking across unparalleled softness,
in never ending clover patches,
while white and pink and red flowers,
fall from blooming trees.

Sometimes,
when it starts to get cold out,
and the leaves start to change,
you can smell the seasons and what they mean.

You can smell halloween,
in the crisp dry leaves,
and pumpkins on front steps.
You can smell thanksgiving,
in the baking bread,
and the rotting gardens.
You can smell christmas,
in the muddy slush,
and cut evergreens,
and cookies and pies from every open window.

Sometimes,
here,
at home,
its like living in a painting.
Done by brilliant and tortured artists,
with galleries in every museum.
And every time you stop for a breath,
you can admire it,
the scene it depicts.
And you can smell it,
and taste it,
and feel it,
and hear it,
and you're in it,
you're in the scene of crape myrtles,
in perfect bloom.
You're in the scene of the pine in a backyard,
with robins sitting on snow covered branches.
You are living that painting,
with the green clover fields,
and strawberry patches,
and vines and maples and nuts,
and its a picture of life and food,
and a painting of plentiful peace.
That perfect picture called home