This Blessed Space

An old white house on a big green hill,
the clamor created lingers still.
Ghostly images of rusty trikes
linger on the fading light.
The holly beseeches with prickly arms
its empty view, it’s long lost farm.
Streams that cut through marshy fields
are now in overgrowth concealed.
Yet, bull frogs still raise their bass along
in harmony with peepers song.
This magic ground, this princely place,
this heavenly home, this blessed space.
It courses through with every beat
part of me, my soul complete.