There is a river- Salinas is its name-
Which flows serenely— free and green.
A picture of tranquility lacking a frame
Is that of nature’s beauty— far from obscene.

Elegant are the distant mountains of rocky emerald.
The sweeping limbs of willows bow
To the strangers that had passed through the weald—
Weary, yet still hopeful, and unyielding to woe.

A place where rabbits roam free of fear
At dusk to sit idly upon the yellow sand.
Where the tracks made by ‘coons, hounds, and deer
Squelch as they are imprinted into the damp land.

A path shaded by dense foliage blocking out the sky-
Where many feet once tramped- leads those compelled
Forward to an ancient, silver sycamore surrounded by
The ashes of the blazing fires that had once swelled.

From that ancient sycamore, an arm stretches out
Worn smooth by those who came to rest upon it
And may again one day should it come about
That the old path guides them to it.

To the place of memories- of life and death-
Where even time dares to hold its breath.