By Walt Barger
September 12, 2000
The beauty of these hills
Call the callus to court
Judging earthy flight
Of elevated emotions;
The beauty of the storm
Angered somewhere past
Distant mountain
Marches through back
Of beyond like
"Jack's" Giant guarding treasures;
drum rolls spitting sparks
strikes light in darkness.
He parades past
Leaving wet and wind
And a clean fresh breath.
These hills smile as I
Compare their beauty
With "her's," reading on the couch.
By Walt Barger
September 12, 2000