The Glen
Faint wisps of fog pervade the glen;
I spy a chipmunk, now and then.
As, sitting there, beneath the pine,
the air smells like fine summer wine.
The wafting breeze soon clears the mist
and strokes my face, like I've been kissed.
A butterfly lights on my hand;
there is contentment in the land.
Copyright © Terry Hoffman | Year Posted 2016
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