Ripples

Who rides the lonely trails, ear to ground Listening for footfalls, coming down. The animals sense a presence, yet unturned; Over the mountain, past the berm. Disturbed pebbles mar the pond's smooth face, A faraway dust cloud closing space. Silent trees listen as if holding breath; Their ancient roots feel movement shift. Something beckons something old, From far days we thought were gone And there is home; dear home, we knew Still full with dreams, that can't come true. This we know; and we know it, plain But it’s the heart, goes back again.