THE PATCH

By Nolan Moon

Patch of meadow grass,

Pale green with bits of yellow. Speckled with spruce in mass,

A quaint and quiet field of mellow.

The morning dew still around, glistening in spots of light.

Dawning wildlife still abound, not hiding from your sight.

Another in this place,

Intruder not, but part of.

Feels as you of open space, choosing a hidden love.

The meadow accepts you each,

Makes you apart of the family.


Just members roaming free.

Down in the land of cotton where Dixie is still sung
Where time has been forgotten
And nights were made for the young where actions never disrupts the chirping of the cricket sand we sit drinking mules
Until our mind has gone blitzed.
Boredom until eleven
Then together we merge
Entering the gates of heaven on Atlanta we converge.