This wind I scent
how sharp it feels
cold to my face
in the moon light
I can not smell the pine
nor hear the sound
of the waving grasses
a lost heart of this land
my eyes no longer see
the climbing eagle
against the moon
its native right
a city stands here
with the broken bottles
amid this trash
a spirit it can not yet lay low
for inward I look
see the stars
grasses frozen in beauty
held dearly in this heart
I carry the memory
of this earth
store house of the nation
for a new start
From the Special Moments Collection of Northern Mornings
© Copyright 1999, Northern Mornings All rights reserved.
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Northern Mornings
The author, Northern Mornings, is from Western Canada and prefers anonimity to fame. Enjoying playing the guitar and writing poetry are but a few of his hobbies. He is very involved in working with people thru his church and other organizations. The sensitivity and sympathy for others is evident in his poetry.
God's works delight him. The silences and noises of His hand, in people, places and events of the earth. He has been a farmer, sawmiller, logger, machinist, and salesman.
Comment from the author:
"People and their hearts have shaped the poetry. I am a reporter. I try to be an honest one at that."