Mayberry Hill

I want to stay on these quiet paths
where last fall’s leaves are only lightly trampled
and fresh layers of white pine needles
make slippery the humps of granite.

I want to stay where a chipmunk’s chirp
and the jangle of my dog’s leash are all I hear,
where splintered fence posts lie decaying,
but old rock walls stand solid.

Here is moss unbroken by bootsteps.
Mayberries spike the meadow.
Tranquility is more than a noun.

But I know that winter follows summer,
and Maine winters run harsh, so I repeat,
like the insistent mosquito droning in my ear,

You cannot stay,
You cannot stay,
You cannot stay.

By Nancy Young

Nancy Young embraces quirkiness the way some people squeeze puppies. Writing drove her as a reporter, editor, and college educator. She’s published articles, stories, and poems, three romantic suspense novels (Seeing Things, Hearing Things, and Sensing Things) and a poetry chapbook, The Last Girl Standing. Occasionally, she wins writing competitions. You can find more about her at: