Green rolling pastures,
Cows grazing along the road,
Disregarding the electric fence,
It was meant to prick, not kill.
The trees forcing their buds open,
Making emerald leaves to flutter in the wind.
Flowers, lilies mostly, start to bloom,
Spilling their sweet scent into the spring air.
Farmers mulling by, hoes in hand,
Tending to their crops and pastures
With care only expected from a mother,
Watching over them, loving them.
The mountains, those proud green mountains,
Now truly green, stand tall in the distance,
Aged with wisdom and sagacious nature,
Their rocky scars exposed to all,
Granite quarries that boom the economy.
The heat rises, and all of the sudden,
The pond is the only thing on our minds,
As we leap in, cooling ourselves in it's watery embrace.
Bugs are everywhere, the native black flies,
Eating, biting, and sucking our blood,
Miniature vampires that flourish in the summer.
Children are everywhere, for school is out.
They bury themselves in nature,
Doing nothing but outside games, and chores.
The leaves change in the most magnificent
Spectacle the world has ever seen, and they all come,
Come to see the leaves change.
But then we wonder,
Don't they have trees where they live?
Why come here?
Maybe our trees our better then other trees.
The apples are ripe now, and we pick them off a tree in
Our own yard, biting into the juicy flesh
And sucking out the sweet nectar.
The earth is dying; Demeter is taking over,
And winter comes,
Killing the plants and covering everything
With a snow-white glass.
Skiers from all over come
To test the hills and slopes of my mountains,
My home now.
Schools are often cancelled, and
Red-cheeked children romp in the snow,
Building their fantasy, their dreams
In the tightly packed snow.
Soon, spring will come again,
And the mountains will be green again in my
Home, my state now.
Hail, Vermont.