From familiar hills You come--
Brushing nostalgic slopes,
Once green velvet, now dormant and dry.
You come
Quiet like the wind
Radiant,
Encircling,
Slicing through childhood canyons
Treading sacred paths
Scattering flowers
Moving clouds
Tipping the light out of your eyes.
You come--
Familiar,
Like home.
Copyright Hope A. Horner, 2014. Use with permission only. Contact author on gmail at hopeh1122
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