Corridor of Colors

This corridor of colors that I am passing 

through from Virginia to Carolina.

Been this way a thousand times,

but today it all looks new.

Dry bushes and brush now contribute

to an artistic array.

Bales of Hay in the field waiting to be chowed upon, 

or stored away. It too has a beauty all of its own.

Touches of color in the trees. 

There was patches of orange, brown, scarlet, 

rust and a reddish orange blazed together

 that made it appear the tree was on fire.

There’s a chilled briskness in the air,

 and several road signs telling of the County fair.

And to some evidence winter will soon be here.

This Corridor of Color I begin to wander if it runs

 from Sea to Sea, or only as Far as the eye can see.

I know today’s beautiful view will never be the same

 for this landscape is under a constant change.

Perfect blue sky with soft white clouds and the 

perfect back drop for this picturesque day. 

Its breath taking what more can I say.

So many trees voluntarily donating leaves of

 confetti that softly flutter down onto the

 floor of this Corridor of Colors.

As I drove the sunset, and there was a meshing of 

golden light, beautiful sky, gorgeous leaves, and brisk air.

Then Darkness Comes

Soft Sultry fluorescent beams of Moonlight eased 

the covers over God’s Magnificent display of art.

And from this magical gallery I depart.

I am so Thankful!!!

Another loving Gift, that I am blessed to see,

With my angel riding beside me

Matthew McCargo


Long Ago

You were to me, like valleys sweet with dew,

Where there so long ago

I’d come to meet you.

Like sunsets rare, or land sweet after rain.

Like ocean spray on a night in June

Or the song of a bird, always in tune. 

Do you remember when we were O so young?

We’d listen with jog to the song the bob o’ links sung?

On a hill stood the school, then so old

And the shed that would shelter us from the cold.

Many years have passed since that happy childhood

A better school has been put, where the old one stood

But often I’d pass, 

Remembering when we played at the spring and yard with much glee

Now I am old, my hair once gold has turned to grey.

You too are old, but you are the same as when we loved, they say.

Valleys sweet with deer!

—Julia Carrington, South Boston