Bridget M Aubrey


Gently sloping emerald hills,
Old, gray fences brightened by daffodils,
Majestic trees ready to burst into bloom,
Strangers smiling and waving at me.
That’s my Kentucky.

Gleaming horses peacefully grazing
Behind white fences,
Old, leaning barns speaking of tobacco and history,
Spring peepers voicing joy by the pond,
Young groundhogs nibbling on new growth,
That’s my Kentucky.

Forsythia blooming against an old log cabin,
Surrounded by ancient maples in red spring splendor,
And the weathered gray schoolhouse nearby,
Bordered by a split rail fence covered in ivy.
That’s my Kentucky.

The quietly rolling Ohio river carries coal
Away from these hills in barges,
While a bald eagle turns wide circles above,
Soaring on air currents invisible to me.
That’s my Kentucky.

Along the creek watercress and forget-me-nots are flourishing,
And a blue heron stands statue-still on the glittering water’s edge.
The ancient mill is nestled between the wooded hills,
Where the sparkling creek works the creaky wheel.
That’s my Kentucky.

Softly swaying cedar trees line roads like tin soldiers,
Decked in fresh, spring green coats,
And underneath velvety violets and bright dandelions
Celebrate their life with shiny faces.
That’s my Kentucky.