South Mountain

At the top of old South Mountain,
In the Pennsylvania hills,
There’s the ring of waking birdsong
In the early morning chill.
Sunlight warms the moss-cloaked granite
Of an ancient field stone row.
Then filters through white birches
Where the pale green sweet ferns grow.
Misty fog that shrouded landscape
Veiling all in opaque green,
Has now faded with the morning
Painting leaves with dewy sheen.
Beneath layers of rich leaf mold
In all shades of nut-brown earth
The sweet, tiny Winterberry
Presses forth for all it’s worth!
Deeper still the fresh spring waters
Flow beneath the tangled roots
To fill waiting moss-lined reservoirs,
dark homes for bright red newts.
Life is new and fresh and singing, tonic for the soul within
Among maple stands in April, at the top of old South Mountain.

E. Strain
Spring, 2000