The barn hums low like a lullaby,
painted in rust and time,
its roof a resting place
for drowsy pigeons and the last blush of day.
Rows of corn stand like sentinels,
golden-shouldered and swaying,
whispering secrets to the breeze
as it combs through their silken hair.
Cows move slowly through the amber grass,
bells singing soft like wind chimes in sleep,
and chickens scurry with laughter in their wings—
tiny, feathered comets chasing joy.
Above, the clouds drift—cotton-spun dreams
unraveling across an orange-pink sky,
as if the heavens are stretching, yawning,
wrapped in a quilt of light.
The pond is still, cradling reflections
of willow limbs and dragonfly flutters,
its surface kissed by a single feather,
like nature leaving a note behind.
A breeze dances through the wheat—
a golden sigh, a hush of contentment,
while the sun, melting into twilight,
wraps the world in honey and hush.
Here, joy grows like roots in the earth,
quiet, certain, never rushed.
And the heart, like a scarecrow smiling at the sky,
feels full,
feels home.