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Nature Nostalgia Poems | Nature Poems About Nostalgia

These Nature Nostalgia poems are examples of Nature poems about Nostalgia. These are the best examples of Nature Nostalgia poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Concrete | |

Dreaming With Butterflies


Copyright © Sharon Smith

Details | Rhyme | |


God named me a straying cloud,
and by His perpetual wish I abide...
as the loneliest cloud floating on the earth's breeze.
I glance below and discover the yellow daffodils pride, 
and fluttering they dance beneath the apple trees;
and as a sparrow I feel the bond. 

My night visitation is more exciting than broad daylight,
I encounter many stars and make them my friends,
and they love shining on the Milky Way...
looking down on the lonely bay so bright;
and tossing their luminous heads, they brightly dance:
so happy they have come my way!

Even the ocean's waves join them in their play,
but their dance is better than theirs,
and at such wondrous sight I make verse...
being offered their warm company;
I am amazed by how they roll and still gazing away,
I do admire the spectacle that gladdens me.

So often, on my couch I gladly lie to rest,
but overwhelmed by empty or moody thoughts,
that splendid image flashes in the glow of the sunset;
my daffodils still wave and invite me to dance,
and I dance with them, making a happy sound...
not to feel the loneliness of a lost cloud. 

Entered in Brian Strand's Adaption poetry contest
This is an adaption of Williams Wordsworth's poem,
"I wandered lonely as a cloud"

Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

Copyright © Andrew Crisci

Details | Rhyme | |

The Orchard

Orchard’s earthy mossy trails
Gray-brown bark like dragon scales
Crooked branches stretch to hold
Tender almonds encased in fuzzy fold

Leafy clusters filter sun
And dapple grasses newly spun
Bathed in tepid valley air
Rich soil echoes memories long grown there

Perfect crisscrossing rows align
Green canopy woven into tapestry fine
Nurtured seasons; pollinating swarms
Bare branches clatter in winter storms

Pale pink blossoms; fragile drapes
Fluttering down like blushing snowflakes
Prolific bounty once again
From a living sanctuary:

My orchard realm

Copyright © Kelly McDonald

Details | Free verse | |

My City

Of the Gods own country of this paradise where green and blue merge as one in the north is a city that encompass the beauty where the dream lands meet lined by kaasaraka trees where seven tongues are spoken and a unique lingo was woken lined by shores and calm beaches which meets with forts of ancient elegance who can pass by with no notice the mountains high and hillocks of beauty forests green and tranquil rivers places of worship, unique structures renowned for coir and handloom and for its customs varied The people here, with a smile of warmth welcoming with open arms known for their variety dishes which does prick ones tastebuds of the sense of fashion who can beat their passion and their thirst for knowledge is to be acknowledged fame it has know from times of yore of the arts and culture it beholds this is the city of budding talents feel the vibe and do relent © Nadiya(14 May '15)

Copyright © poesy relish

Details | Acrostic | |

In An Autumn Kiss

I t’s in an Autumn kiss I feel again
N ostalgic yearning for the yet-to-be.

A wakened, I’m released from the mundane.
N o other kiss inspires so magically 

A s fall’s! I breathe her colors in and sigh. . .  .
U nleashed, I soar with leaves, for it’s a thrill
T o taste the wind and dance into the sky.
U nclad and glad, I swirl with clouds until
M isgivings come to me. Then down I float.
N aive as always, I’ve been led by this

K iss, for now a melancholy note
I s drifting through a mist. Farewell to bliss.
S oon winter will embrace me though I know
S eduction comes less easily by snow.

An Acrostic in Sonnet form, Written Aug. 26, 2012 for Francine Roberts' Autumn Acrostic Poetry Contest

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich

Details | Free verse | |


The moor side broadcast,perpetually
amid airwaves of delirium,
aria that reverberates, from crag to scar
beacon to abbey century to century,
Everyday truth in simplicity
to ignite the human race!

Copyright © harry horsman

Details | Free verse | |

Its Raining...

                          Its Raining…

God’s Cleansing Tool
Cloud-Concerto… How Cool !
Plop-Plop Plopping into Pothole Pools
On the Grass, Pavements and On My Own-Sweet- Fools…

who, don’t have Sense enough, to get out of the Rain…
… I think I’ll go Join Them… Again


Copyright © MoonBee Canady

Details | Terzanelle | |

Hirtle's Beach

Where doubts dissolve and roads disband,
there lies a quiet crescent beach
to crown the sea with golden sand.

A breath beyond the city's reach,
where waves recede like moving glass,
there lies a quiet crescent beach.

When evening fades and stars amass,
the silver sky consumes the sea    
where waves recede like moving glass.

When moonlight skims the tallest tree
through wisps of fog and fragrant mist,    
the silver sky consumes the sea.

Along the shore where waves persist,
the sunrise melts through violet clouds,     
through wisps of fog and fragrant mist.

The sky discards its gauzy shrouds
where doubts dissolve and roads disband.
The sunrise melts through violet clouds
to crown the sea with golden sand.

Copyright © Heather Ober

Details | Lyric | |

The Old Homestead

Orphaned footsteps round the old place.
Pitch black soil, packed deep with bartered
coin and Indian heads – wood and otherwise,

coat her worn leather shoes, Hutterite chic. 
The long land screams within its own silence.
Prairie sage burns somewhere, a ghostly smudge

for the undulating grass and, those it serves.
Its alive scent makes the dead turn towards 
its head - and the barely living turn to listen. 

The impossibly endless horizon holds its bright 
blue at bay, begging acknowledgement for 
its self-professed being and looming enormity.

She looks at the broken window glass and 
through the tattered, delicate gray lace. “Those 
were hers.” She whispers to the one who listens. 

This great-great-granddaughter sees the curtains 
as they once were – wistful in the hot Manitoba 
wind; fresh and lowing with the honest elemental 

scent of aspens, hope and bare-knuckle wash boards; 
always fresh; shifting in the cry for solace in summer 
shadows – never as still as this moments endlessness.

Blowing through the deep brown of splintered pine 
front doors; cracking the announcement of cast iron, 
rot and burnt wood comes the simple statement of – 

I lived. This mother of five young does not cry, 
just yearns to walk in the old ones footsteps;
to know them loved; hear the birdsong through

unbroken bedroom windows for a 5am waking; 
feel the resistance of dough on fingers that beg 
to be broken, and kiss the twisting undead, living. 

The burning of the noonday sun taps her whole,
marking; branding her pale Swedish skin its own.
The red sting of burnt breaks her inward silence, 

welcoming her familiar face home.

© Kristin Reynolds 3 29 2009

*Reposted for John's Summer Celebration Contest. This is a personal celebration; 
celebrating and honoring my great grandparents who settled in Manitoba after leaving 
Sweden and Denmark. This celebrates the summer of family, at least for me. We went there 
every summer until it was gone...

Copyright © Kristin Reynolds

Details | Haiku | |

The Mystic Doors

Whilst in deep sleep
Found a strangest place amidst
Strolled somewhere anew 

Creatures lead wrong ways
But still best life chose its path
Mystic doors were closed 

Glimpsed one and the rest
Until one by one opened
Watcher accosted.

Copyright © marvin celestial

Details | Light Poetry | |

Two Old Friends

Dusty roads and fresh grass
summertime rodeos approaching fast
riding with a friend down on sandbars 

A piece of hay hanging out of his mouth
though some trapped water, out the other side
I had forgotten this wonderful life

I still see some twenty year old boy helping me up
now a sixty year old man rides in front
pointing all the changes in the last five years

I could not believe what time I lost
4 am to a cowboy is not early enough
my pants soaking wet my boots fixed

We rode on down to his dads favorite spot
to meet God when the sun comes up
we turned to face it and did not say a word

God's spirit was the only thing we heard
as earth to air, and water to fire, met in the sky
right there two old friends prayed to God


Copyright © Danielle Wise Baxter

Details | Blank verse | |

Morning Glory

Ah, morning glory, such internal blush, defy the penetration of brash sun. Oh, linger, trumpet of dawn within the dim or haze of mid-morning's overcaste. Oh, fairest of the fair, your milk white core doest blush forth, a brim of purple poise one pinked with the cheek of infancy, the soft and silken skin of new born day. Ah, let your vine entwine the aged arch. Then, let the arbor, regal, drip delight. Your limpid leaves all faint with August’s heat, leaves like hands ‘tween fingers now enfold. Oh, only heaven knows more of beauty than the morn you blessed with this glory.
Birthday: September

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi

Details | Free verse | |

Memories etched in the sand

Sifting warm sand 
through my fingers,
shimmering fine grains 
glitter my palm.
filled with life’s memories
of nut brown days
of summer.

A soft silk breeze 
formed dunes
with our dreams 
that summer
when we danced to the stars.
My heart laced yours
listening to the sea
undulating waves of emotion
as we kissed 
on the velvet strand.

I still hear
the rhythm of the ocean.
Waves tumbling in unison,
a sweeping sound 
gently caressing
as we lay silently 
listening to sand
shifting over stone
to the faint chiming
of seashells.

My first love
a sea salted embrace
on a breast of sand.
The memories
forever held
in the sand
in glitter on my hand.

Copyright © Eiken Laan

Details | Burlesque | |


Once his brown alpargata shoes trod countless miles,
imagination burst from his vivid, traveler's eyes...
He traversed valleys leading to azure mountains,
and heard a chant sung with vivacious tones.

Like the invaders of the past that built sturdy castles
on rugged hills, he intruded in those ghostly places...
expecting swift lancers with fierce glances ready to attack him,
or take him prisoner and toss him in a dungeon completely dim.

But with his slick tongue, he would kindly ask for a fair trail
and be scolded by the drunken King with the fattest tummy
to explain with a few words his intrusion in that well-guarded territory;
and looking so young and innocent, his plan for deception wouldn't fail!

" Oh, mighty Frederick II...I come in peace and as a conquered native,
I would bow in admiration to be of service to your kingdom,
which extends from Naples to Sicily, your mercy is imperative...
may your soldiers unlock these heavy chains that make me lame!"  

The Norman King with the bluest eyes ordered the knights 
to free him and waited for words to flow from his mouth with dry lips, " My great
 King, I have grown grapes that are so juicy to eat with bread and they make
the most delicious wine to bring merriment to your festive nights!"

" Where's this region you mention with such wonder and delirium?"
With red-inflamed pupils, King Frederick II asked him. And he traveler's deep voice
vibrated with loud excitement , " Into the valley of Baianum!"
" Let me out of this castle and I will show the purple grapes of a farmer's choice!"

" Let him loose!" ordered the tall, fair king. " Give him the fastest  horse,
and let him bring me proof of his finding!" The soldiers obeyed with reluctance,
but little trust they showed in him: they assumed he was another well-paid jester,
who performed his comedy well...they knew the cleverness of that young traveler! 

Copyright © Andrew Crisci

Details | Free verse | |

In the Shallows

           I bent over to touch my toes
               and the ground tore open like a backbone.

I tried to feed myself the sky;
to splice my tearducts into the universe 
so that, when the pavement cried, it would mean something to me.
My fingernails punctured that slimy membrane
congealed with stars, 
and I brought a slice of it to my lips,
hot and slippery like a jellyfish.
Peach juice, chalky-sweet, flowed,
fleshy particles snagged in my teeth,
and the colors erupted within my mouth.

Synthesia took over my lungs.
The hollows between my knuckles flooded with synovia
and all the ectoplasm threatened to separate from my cells
with a sound like thunder.
Diphthong tasted rusty like leukoplakia as it tiptoed across my tongue.
Tomorrow rose like the skeletons of trees, 
groping for a feeling similar to catharsis
[catharsis tender as the broken wings of doves,
crunching underfoot like shattered glass.]

The clouds opened their thunderous maws
- teeth snicker-snacking, lamplight-eyes flaming the color of E#'s -
and consumed me.
I felt my skin turn to something other than skin:
thick and rough with scales,
my fingerprints melting into something waxen, smooth and opaque,
like pomegranate kisses on coffee mugs.
A feeling ignited deep in my structure;
cedillas blossoming like lilies from my lips,
fragmented sentences stretching taut as guitar strings
between my thumb and forefingers.  
A flutter gentle and demonic as Calcifer erupted from my system
- splattering hot and frothing into my hand -
and fluid rushed in.

   I dared to taste oblivion,
       and the sky swallowed me. 

My lungs failed to be lungs.
They flooded with caustic matter,
and I coughed up reflections sharp as fiberglass;
fighting with organs phthisical and sore.
I struggled to find a way to describe it:
the feeling of consuming something greater than yourself,
of opening your eyes and tasting the sound of rain.
It was like swimming, 
but inside out.

            I bent over to touch my toes,
              and my spine tore open;
            the loose laces unraveling, veterbrae poking out
          like the tines of forks.
            I tried to contort myself into the beginning,
              but I only found where I end.

Copyright © Elizabeth Nathaniel

Details | Free verse | |

Himalayan Sunset

The young men sat, planted under the overhang
like the pansies and geraniums that surrounded them in boxes,
as the rain pelted the terra-cotta terrace.

The mountain air was sharp with the taste of lightening.
Having bid farewell to the arched shard of a rainbow across the valley,
they sat tensely watching the celestial bombardment of Katmandu.

The lightening stoked the day’s heat, 
thickening the early evening sky like the yogurt they’d eaten for lunch.
A home-made rice wine poured freely over their tongues
from an innocent looking water bottle.
Their eyes turned garnet with the harshness of it. 

The bottle sat with its tattered label, upon the arm of the white chair.
The wine within tasted faintly of the gasoline,
yet, they reveled in it, and the freedom from deep seeded societal traits,
it freed them from.

Overhead, the sky was draped in a bridal veil of stars;
as I emerged from the room to sit beside them.

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi

Details | Rhyme | |


People are commonly different
Symbol of diversity piece
Pure race doesn’t exists

Color and creed are just an identity
Believe only in human history
God sculptured them from clay

People are equally created
Having many opposites
But respecting others taste

When everyone is treated equal
Nothing appears but peace in hand
Discrimination, disunity and, suffering won’t be born anymore

Written to advocate to suppress racism
Bandar Sandakan, Sabah, Malaysia
10:30-11:00 am, November 13. 07, Tuesday

Copyright © Neldy Jolo

Details | Light Poetry | |

' Patricia Adams - An Alaskan Light ... '

She, Of The Cosmic Essence
Aware Of A Power
Aware Of A Presence
And Aware Of The Need For Our
Desire To Rise Higher
… and Higher
To Our Optimum Height
Patricia … You Are Like The Alaskan Lights
Those Northern Flares and Colors In Cold Night 
Floating Dreams, So Mesmerizing
Patricia, Brings It To Her Poetic Themes
Such Are The Verses She Shares To View
And Reading Them, She's Showing You
Her Cosmic Essence Insight
Oh Patricia, You’re An Alaskan Light …
So, Keep Reaching, Keep Speaking … and Write !

For The Girl, Who Shared A Comfy, Snug Book Read
On One Of Her Snowy Days … (Via Her Poem- ‘Autumn’s Passing’ 
Also - Your Poem ‘Journey’ is One)
See … It Brought Back Some Wonderful Memories To Me …

                   Your Poet-Friend,
                           The  MoonBee

Copyright © MoonBee Canady

Details | Free verse | |


O impetuous Muse surround me
with ashes of moody youth
Recall silken moments,
 uncertain, where 
marbled words wrote
an elaborate history.

Nectar thoughts,
 not moments, dappled drab
where ruined feathers in darkness dwelt.
Ornate  years of passion, spilling fire
allusive to all consuming ire.
When summer spoke,
when spring day-dreamed
and Autumn kissed me with
gaudy leaves.

Swift and sweet, how memories rise
diamond- strung in a room of silver
Slick and sleek from a stormy world,
 solid tree trunks on a bell- clear morning.
Blithe, dramatic, reckless dreams
 flowing with precocious,
 peculiar streams
 Luxurious with sadness,
 time’s cruel wheel
  rolls vast recollections 
 that slowly  yield
 cold, closed canyons of
endless  truths,
touched with the starry
  kiss of  youth.

Suzanne Delaney

for Harry

Copyright © Suzanne Delaney

Details | Rhyme | |

On A Calm Summer Night

On A Calm Summer Night

I have walked upon a starry, darkness on a calm summer night
Have followed your fine foot-prints you have left on the sands of time,
I told not a single soul about my long, long and endless search
In the darkness of the sky which kept my silhouette well hidden
Underneath the flaunting wings of thus unforeseen nocturnal clouds.

You then came back as I left the darkness into the endless mist,
I left just like a cloud which easily disappears as a thin gust of air
Unknown to all you found was one lone blue feather on my doorstep
Amidst a tiny of dried petals within a long stemmed red-red flower,
Amidst a tiny of dried petals within a long stemmed red-red flower.

I have followed your fine foot-prints you have left on the sands of time
I have walked upon a starry, darkness on a calm summer of night;
I have followed your fine foot-prints you have left on the sands of time
I have walked upon a starry, darkness on a calm summer of night.

Written: Nov. 22/2014
Eve T.M.M.

Copyright © Eve T.M.

Details | Italian Sonnet | |

All Through Tuscany

The afternoon outlined. The sunny strokes
of a samurai blade on her body
revealing things the eyes feign see.
Tempted, wounded, the virgin parchment floats
between her skin and satin cloak.
Artist; afternoon, craving company
draws her inside-out so innocently,
on purpose leaves the yolk indwelling.

The painter in the corner moans,
he jealous of the afternoons artly
sensual oration.
Improving skin, bare olive tones
of subtle pastel, the moment partly lost
to the constellations.

Copyright © Jim Marshal

Details | Free verse | |

In the Weeping Willow's path

I will never return,
Not even when the willows grow.
Not even when a distant bird
Sings my soul’s departure.
I’ll be alongside the river,
Tracing the few years of my love.
I gave my soul to this ancient stream,
Where the willows plot in silence.
They want to take my core
And carry it over
The fields, the skies, 
Across my mind.
And I shall let my darling tree
Snatch my heart and take it far,
For no one else to 
Grab it all over again.

I’ll endure the Willow’s magic
And contain my spirit
Within her bark, within her leaves,
Releasing my poison into the water.
She’ll guide my spirit
Into the Summerland,
Where I’ll rest by the
White Willow’s side.
Then I’ll be the child of nature,
Daughter of the Weeping ones,
Resting my branches 
By the river, on a rainy evening.

And I shall weep
Every time you will,
And wipe your tears 
With my leafy fingers.
I’ll be your undying guardian
And your oldest friend,
Enchanting you in the land of dreams.
I’ll be the willow on your bedside. 

© 2009 Stefania Carmen Misaila

Copyright © Stefania Carmen Misaila

Details | Narrative | |

Stunning Armadillos

Trees still shade the road
where Gramps and I once rode
in his old green car -- I drove --
on dusky early evenings
in my fifteenth year.
We stopped, as he insisted, at every spot
where an armadillo scratched
among the tender greenery
in ditches.
I was dispatched,
with Gramps' strong wood cane,
to kill a pesky armored creature
by striking hard, once, upon its snout.
Gramps waited in the car,
called encouragement or condemnation:
"That's it! Hit him hard!" or
"Can't you do a damn thing right?"
He knew I didn't like to kill
but was determined to toughen up
my softness.
That hard old man was not accustomed
to being crossed or contradicted.
But part of him was tender,
and he had a sense of what was right
in the bayou country of his day.
How could I tell him that I hated
killing just to please him?
Often, I killed, then killed again,
although, at times, I'd miss the snout
or be slow to follow up,
and permit an armadillo to escape.
Sometimes, I'd temper force with moderation --
I'd stun the creature, grab the tail,
fling it far into dense bushes
to revive and live another day.
My grandfather eyed me darkly then,
but often kept his peace.
He gave me the treatment
I gave those stunned armadillos.
Could he have felt the same
toward me as I toward them?

Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore

Details | Rhyme | |

Melancholy Faun

Wooden paths I seek forlorn,
I miss the smell where I was born.
The coolest air of blossoms bloom 
no longer wait for me to loom.
No canopy to be my roof ~
now ashes scattered under hoof.
I had to leave I couldn't stay,
they took upon themselves that day:
destroying what I miss the most ~
My home,
 now just a charcoal ghost.

Copyright © Tammy Armstrong

Details | Haiku | |


on her tresses
mom's floral clips

Copyright © Ernesto P. Santiago

Details | Narrative | |


Before spring came, in late February
to the blooming and jolly hills 
I ran, breathing heavily and frantically,
touching the perfumed blossoms 
of a solitary, old cherry tree;
and underneath it I sat writing poetry
that hadn't a perfect rhyme and beat! 
Weren't my skills marred by imperfections?    

Canaries and red-breasted robins
flew down and rested on my outstretched legs;
perusing my lines to spot their names,
and when they did, they flapped their wings in gladness!
I could have imagined their joyful words,.
if only they had acquired the gift of speech,
and deeper in their thoughts I would have reached:
to dispel the myth that they had no feelings...

After my short poem was completed,
I reached for my harmonica to play my favorite classic tune;
and being surprised by the paleness of the fading moon,
I dedicated that happy melody to her not to let her despair:
by waving my hand to make her farewell less sad, while I whispered,
" Silent moon, eternal companion of every poet,
what's beyond the realm of this universe?...
Tell us more of those invisible suns and planets! "

Before spring came to the dormant valley,
the mountains' peaks allowed the sun to melt their snows,
to create gushing torrents to feed its water to the dry and cracked soil,
which needed rain instead of harmful frost;
and I drank the freshest water and washed my sweaty face,
while fighting off the bees' stubborn rivalry!
That spring has come again to dress herself with incredible splendor,
and this discontent and wishful heart desires nothing more than being there!  

My theme is: Happiness In Childhood

Copyright © Andrew Crisci

Details | Free verse | |

A walk with me

Waves crash the rocks in ecstasy
as I pass the archway 
to the sea.
Onwards to the village, 
busy cafes,
the aroma of coffee brewing,
as a power of teens gather, texting.
I venture down 
a chestnut lined road
under a canopy 
of Copper Beech
where bright shafts of sun
illuminate a lane of lavender 
a sea of perfume
wafts the air.
Climbing an incline, 
hills in view,
the distant sobbing
of water sounds
a trickling brook emerges
ambling through magenta heather
and thorny gorse.

I reach a stile, 
entrance to the woods
where a carpet 
of frosted red cyclamen 
bleeds down to a deep dark glen.
A chicory lake lies there, frozen
as a mist uncurls between reeds.
The granite hills,
 soft with snow,
luminous against a whale grey sky.
A copse of pine trees
surround a curving river
where trout pout, bubbling.
At the fold of day, 
returning hom
The pale sun sinks the horizon
as stars tremble
into a velvet night

Copyright © Eiken Laan

Details | Free verse | |


Profound silence
felt and revered,
stirring an awesome emotion,
which stillness repeals
whenever brightness shines;
and the primroses' scent spreads the delight
of the mild season.

What do the stars 
tell a lover's heart...palpitating
in tranquility, amid shadows
that advance with the pretty fireflies?
Dream, and reprieve from the loss...
hoping that love doesn't lay at rest,
but chooses to celebrate
'till after the evening, and tell romantic tales.

The invisible crickets chirp, 
somewhat awkward to the ears,
I'd rather hear the coos of the owls,
which are richer and more harmonious in sound,
but where are they in this darkness, unless
they are mating in the willows of the lake?

Our blanket is spread on the wide Sheep Meadow,
with a superb view of those Manhattan's skycrapers,
towering over us as sentinels in castle's towers.
Juliet wanted to taste this freedom,
embracing and kissing her handsome Romeo,
not fearing anyone intruding in her paradise,
unwilling to leave anytime soon;
and unruffled, she would continue to love him.  

What do the stars tell a lover's heart?
Accept the lovely rose that he offers you, and adore it,
because it has no thorns, to make you bleed in despair;
Sing with him a beautiful sonnet that Shakespeare wrote
for his lover who crossed the Atlantic ocean,
when ships took months to reach America's shore.

Copyright © Andrew Crisci

Details | Lyric | |

Osage Sunset

I imagine the echo of the once thundering herds, Before the Bison succumbed to the tallow vats. I listen for symphonies of the missing songbirds, That made the Osage foothills their habitat. The land that was theirs is no longer pristine, Now the hills are interspersed with pump-jacks. Barbed wire fences make today's boundaries clean, And pickup trucks are the source of most tracks. In scrutinizing my thoughts I invariably ask why? While realizing that time man can't rearrange. Then God paints a sunset on the evening sky, An awesome portrait that man can't change.

Copyright © Tom Wright

Details | Rhyme | |

A Lesson From The Birds

Lying in my hammock, I'm looking at the sky.
No matter what goes on down here, the birds go sailing by.
They don't pay me attention, for I am no concern.
I feel if I watch long enough, there's so much I could learn.

What is it that they're showing me that I have yet to see? 
They fly and soar without a care, just happy to be free.
I guess I'm very lucky to be living as I do.
I have nothing that I yearn for and my bills arn't overdue.

I'll just lie here in my hammock on my front porch in the shade.
I'll thank the birds for showing me that I've really got it made! ! 

Copyright © Mary Nagy