Sacred ground,
untouched by man;
where Nature is still reigning Lord.
By the stream,
a twisted hollow oak stands,
where the whitetails drink and ford.
Places that by grace
have gone unscathed;
These hallowed grounds I roam...
Greedy eyes have yet to focus upon
these parcels I call home.

Sacred places that surround you...
gentle and peaceful,
harsh and mean !
Left and right and all around you...
Their precious spoils, yet to glean.

Perhaps you catch a fleeting glimpse...
But, they are seldom ever seen.
For, they play no part in your daily lives;
They're just places...
in between.

They escape your eye as you hurry by;
In your heaps of steel and chrome;
These tiny, scattered Edens...
These parcels I call home.

You see the bloated carcasses...
discarded objects...trash and me...
as I sprint across your life-line...
to enter these leafy canopies.

Lifeless eyes, within a ditch...
A mongrel stray thats been struck down.
To the hurriers, he's a horror;
That makes them gag in route to town.
The workers of the highway come...
And shovel him from the scene;
He met his demise...
At the gates of Paradise;
Seeking places...
In between.

At night,
as I lay 'neath the hollowed oak,
she emits an eerie moan...
sounds of mourning...
for smitten lovers...
of scattered Edens,
we call home.

***