WHERE PIGS AREN’T GREEN
Kevin G. Burnham
Alone on a hillside, sittin’ up
Tall grass surrounds the buttercup
Sky blue above, darker stream below
Nothing to do, nowhere to go.
A soft summer breeze tickles my face
Oh, how I love this lovely place
Time here is slow and so serene
Clouds are white and pigs aren’t green.
Sitting back now; elbows on hold
Sun lights the water – liquid gold
A willow whispers, an oak – it creaks
Around a pine a squirrel peeks.
Shoes nudged off, toes are now free
Hope that that bumble steers clear of me
Seeing no one and not being seen
That’s the way it is and pigs aren’t green.
Lying down – Oh! – and looking above
A bird glides by – I think it’s a dove;
A symbol of peace, a sign of hope
A place to rest, a time to cope.
Closing my eyes; a chance to dream
About my life, like the gurgling stream,
Days flow fast – we’ve all seen
That’s why it’s nice where the pigs aren’t green.