The bright sun rises over lush green hills,
burns off the haze in hollow down below.
The county fair has come and gone, its thrills
melt into old dreams as the season slows.
Some find the weather’s cruel here in Andes,
but I will take whatever it may bring;
this year there are no apples in the trees,
the blossoms were all frozen in the spring.
Soft rain will run down culvert by the road,
joins larger stream and ocean given time,
the heavy growth of grass has finally slowed,
tomatoes ripen, split and fall from vine.
I breathe the scent of change that’s in the air
so I can know my future’s everywhere.

William Duke