Shimmering, quivering, aspens,
bask in the evening sun;
peaks of the mountains high,
grow purple as day is done.

In the dense, dark pockets of spruce,
the streams run fast and clear;
the forest, strong and silent,
harbor the wolves and deer.

It's spring-time in Arizona,
the intrigue of nature's show;
in glorious sun and shadow,
that causes the heart to glow.

It's the stillness of the meadow,
that tempers the buzz of day;
that in quiet meditation,
shows its presence, now, in May.

I drink the nectar of splendor,
and gaze at the feast of the mind;
contented to be here... to see,
the painting, that I alone find.