Bare Hills Euphoria

Euphoria; how strange, born of gray hills and ragged grass,
like times, long years ago, when skinny, childish feet
stood on like elevation with neighbor farms in view,
of all surveyed, her realm, as clouds thoughtlessly pass.
Only today, not tomorrow with blooms-to-be, the present sweet,
and mellow. "I don't need tomorrow," to make my world new.

Another crossing, children moving on their way,
and there's no holding back, but dry with blowing grass,
who'd think across a gray, blanched hill, a bit before real spring,
when still bare trees expose the rustic scene near and away,
I'd stand tall, see vanquished winter hold its peace and pass?
Only when ready, poised, own the realm where birds will sing.

Euphoria--the inner sense of skinny feet skipping the grass,
the sense of holding, what never will be exactly so,
the sky looks down at just today, not passing time.
Shall I return? I'd never have thought while grass may blow,
but pre-spring and post-fall, special, freed from life's morass,
an, "I don't care" if scenery is drab in growth and hue,
the scene I some time would not have thought sublime.
But what it leaves with me, a realm of view,
it may be, that no one else would really know.