Always
We walk past the blackberry
bushes, to the clearest
brook untouched by men
running free
near "Fairy Glen."
In this silent meadow
the highway is not heard.
We find where
the ponies come to rest
and birth their foal.
Where no one could step
we make a pile of old, brown
bottles, gather broken glass,
bury a discarded container.
Like rain, silence returns again.
A red squirrel scolds us for taking
his acorns, ponies come for fallen
apples, the glen goes back
to the past, New Hampshire is home
for another year to her own.
