By Jerry John
Lonesome days in meadow's mist,
Wind blowing by the willow's wisp,
Small eyes at me would stare,
That belonged to a beautiful hare,
From across the lake, cold and crisp.
Long in silence I would wait,
Till magic's abode to me was shown,
Till weeper's cry had I heard,
Nor yesterday nor tomorrow had I known.
Lost the days of glorious past,
In the earth, it sank forever more,
Waiting, waiting still am I,
For spring to come and winter to go,
For lonesome days to blow away,
And season to come of seed and hoe.