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New England Poem

Grace, age 14


I love my New England home,
Sun falling dappled onto the trees
And a stone wall every mile.
We still have all four seasons here
Summerís hot, Winterís cold,
Spring is wet, and Fall is crisp and clear.
But when I see the sun set on some high hill crest
I have to wander whatís it like farther to the west.
My father lived out there a while and has stories to
share:
Driving through fields of corn so tall you canít see
past there
Until you go a little higher, like on an elevated
bridge,
And see that the city of half a million is just a mile
ahead.
Of driving up a mountain in a raging snow storm
And seeing, right in front of his eyes, and accident
form.
My teacher grew up out in Arizona state.
Her father taught her to drive on reservation land
Where the only things for her to hit were cacti and
mounds of sand
My uncle lived in AZ too, and tells of his walks
On which heís seen a few coyotes and numerous types of
hawks.
On the weather in the morning as Iím watching the T.V.
Iíll see itíll be 84 today, while it Texas 103.
Iíve gone through several blizzards, but it hardly
ranks
Next to the pictures of the Mississippi flooding her
banks.
I have a friend from Illinois whoís been through a
tornado.
And I laugh to hear those from Florida complain with
woe untold,
ďThe temperatureís been in the sixties - the
weatherís been so cold!Ē
These anecdotes show me a thing or two,
But whatís it like, I still donít know
So someday Iíll have to go