Poem By John Shea
I cradle the travelers in their windy Birth,
My name is Mother....Mother Earth.
I Give them a bed in nature to lie,
When they hear that sweet lullaby.
I wash them in my rivers and streams.
Thier furtive flight is a product of dreams.
When the dream ends and they always come clean.
They thank me with colors and odors of fall,
And remind me to give Old Man Winter a call.
What am I?
The leaves inspired by,
The one who says,
'Semper Fi '