Perhaps man has a hundred senses, and when he dies
only the five senses that we know perish with him,
and the other ninety-five remain alive.
– Anton Chekhov (“The Cherry Orchard”)
The past walks here, all the dead
horses and livestock men grazing
a hundred and fifty springs—
all the promises and passion spilled
upon this wild mat of grass and flowers,
naked lovers idly pinching petals
along the creek for centuries
within the mottled shade
these same trees have cast, yet see
to keep alive. We have had
our moments here, left ourselves
so wholly that we rise and rest
among them, add our song
to the canyon, our cries to the sky
to forever make our home.
drycrikjournal 
Your words are absolutely beautiful.
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Influenced to an overwhelming degree by green grass for a change, by spring, by the earth as it comes alive.
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Hand and Land meld so sensitively in your poem as in your photograph. Excellent work . . .
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Thank you, Peter.
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Simply, destined for the book.
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Maybe so. Thanks, Richard.
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Nerves ending of shallow earth, memories filled open spaces reaching to be heard, from the root to the sun. But you among so very few, can read their voice.
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Thank you, Agnes. I read something that continues to work for me as long as I keep listening.
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