A Place I Call My Home

The grass grows green.
In a place I call my home.
Shining bright in the morning sun.
Glistening with dew.
It grows over hills.
Spreading far enough to kiss the leaves in the forest.
A timid frog hops between the blades.
Pausing to listen for the swoop of wings.
A piercing cry echoes through the clearing.
Sending the little frog scurrying back.
To the protection of the weeds.
The pines grow tall.
In a place I call my home.
Sending shadows creeping like fingers.
Crying sticky sap.
A trail tears over grey bark.
A chorus of song.
Of melody from feathered beaks.
It awakes the squirrles.
Nestled in their eggs of needles.
A game of tag seems to have awoken.
Greys and reds flash across the leaves.
Their tiny bodies sprinting so fast they barely touch the ground.
The flowers grow bright.
In a place I call my home.
The first brave bulbs stand tall.
Their green sprouts shivering in the cold.
But as the March snow melts.
Others stand beside the tulips.
Daisies and sunflowers.
Roses and marigolds.
They all lean to the warm spring sun.
Blooming with vibrant colors.
They dance in the wind.
And droop in the rain.
When crisp petals fall.
The weather turns frigid.
Dawn grows bitter.
Dusk nipps at the remaining leaves.
The winters are cold.
In a place I call my home.
We darn our coats and mittins.
Wrapped in blankets of wool.
Watching the flakes fall.
Building piles white on our green grass.
We wait.
We wait.
Until a hand of green reaches from the ice.
Gasping for air after the cold winter months.
A single flower emerges.
Standing tall among the puddles of snow.
For everything grows.
In a place I call my home.