Where sheep graze lazily
around the sunset-stained silo across our street.
I live in a world fit for a stamped postcard,
wild purple berries lining the valley paths
and tree-covered hideaways, where stillness
is not only allowed but encouraged.
Nothing is demanded of the farmland wanderer,
perfumed by morning dew and inebriated
by the gentleness of a dying August.
I like it here, where the wild river twists
in its rugged beauty, where the sky breaks
open enough for me to hear my heartbeat
singing I am alive, I am alive,
I know I am alive.