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by Lillian Wright Melville
There’s a little trail that runs along
a violet bordered stream,
Where cardinals sing the whole day long
and pussy-willows dream.
A little trail that twines itself
across a meadow brook,
And in the land of memories
I see a shady nook.
A little trail we traveled much
and at the end could see
Woodland trees with out stretched arms
in laden gaiety.
For every soul, sometime, somewhere,
has traveled winding streams;
Where a little path has twined itself
in a land of golden dreams.
(This poem was read aloud at the start of our recent spring ephemeral wildflower walk.
The author is Jeremy’s Great Great Grandmother)