Sepia Sanctuary

Tall, hazy lines slowly come into focus,

Punctuated with dappled flecks of light.

Trees silently shout like exclamation points.

When I close my eyes, it all comes into sight.

Tinted with sepia hues of nostalgia,

The scene corresponds with its bygone era.

However, these warm tones are cast

By the glow of clay dirt, Georgia-red terra.

Marking memories and clothing alike,

As I jump a mud creek with stained feet.

This simple act swells with adventurous pride, 

Thick as the humid summer heat.

There’s not a grown-up soul to be seen,

For it’s only known to the true backwoods pioneer.

This hidden canyon of shade and stream

Is more majestic in the mind's eye than it may appear.

But it’s in this spot where travels take place,

Where storybook tales leap from pages,

Where knees are skinned and clothes are soiled,

Where bonds are made, lasting for ages.

This sepia sanctuary is where time stands still,

Where hours pass more quickly than the brook’s babbling. 

It’s where tender dreams take root in red dirt,

And then each one flourishes into a strong sapling.

Notice that canopy, now softly filtering the light,

As if diffusing exclamations of childhood surprise. 

Let it spread and settle, saturating every pore.

And then it all comes into focus when we open our eyes. 

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