Most poems are about emotion

This one is of place

 The neighborhood around us

The vistas that we face

 

Our oak is dropping acorns

Like missiles on the deck

The squirrels are scurrying after them

Our backyard’s a wreck

 

There’s a gentle murmur of traffic

As background for our street

The scent of apples ripening

And footsteps of my feet

 

My dog halts at storm drains

Hesitation always there

Is it the metal grid that grates

Or a hint of raccoon in the air?

 

We climb up Monte Cresta

And then descend Monserat

Along our route trudge children

With backpacks big and fat

 

Some days we startle Does with wet noses

Staring at us through the mist

Maybe a fawn or two behind them

You get the gist

 

This place means beautiful mountain

And I’d say its name is apt

‘Cause as we walk its hills

With beauty, we are wrapped