by
Clare
Gartland
June
16, 1938
The first of
July?
Why to-day's
the day
They'll start
to hay
In Rileyville.
You've never
heard of it, you say?
It's a splinter
of fairyland tucked away
In Pennsylvania
mountains gay.
There's a quilt
of grass on every least incline,
And morning's
dew sparkles with a
Special sort
of shine.
The limp lake
waters lick and lop
Like a languid
lad with a lollypop,
In summer
time they mirror trees,
In winter
they are first to freeze.
The woodchucks
are lazy and fat and slow,
But they know
where the choicest gardens grow.
They have
a weirdly sure animal sense
Which seems
to see flags by the holes in the fence.
The wind chases
patterns though the hay
And cowbells
tinkle out the day.
The briars,
like blades, with berries large
Are dauntless
in tolling nature's charge.
The kittens
find the straw in the barn
More playful
than city cousins find the yarn.
The tired moon
smiles as she climbs the sky,
Can Rileyville
be nicer viewed from high?