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Stanwood, WA • All Posts

No one will tell you, I do suppose
They know where the Red Fern grows.
High in the mountains, into the dale,
Following the path of an unmarked trail.
Down through the valley, into the glade,
It's a dangerous journey that you have made.
Past the shadows, down by the spring,
What's seen next, is a beautiful thing.
Moss covered rocks; downed logs in repose,
This is where the Red Fern grows.
Magical indeed is the sight of the scene,
Where the love of another, does not demean
What should be years, months, days and hours
Of caring for others, in this World of ours.
This wonderous place of beauty, I propose,
That all see where the Red Fern Grows.

Inspired by the Novel, Where the Red Fern Grows
By Wilson Rawls, 1961

I hear an echo of words from the past.
I'm writing them down; as they come too fast.
Down to the paper where they stick like glue.
Some are good but they number a few.
Words can be like chaff in the hay,
Some last forever, some gone on this day.
The echo of words, I hear in a song,
Brings back the voice of my Father
Who for many years has been gone.
Words that are not laced with fear
But old words that I hold most dear.

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