I return to my secret hiding place,
And grab the old brass key.
I look around from left to right,
Made sure no one was watching me.
I scurried off to my favorite place,
Kept running south, then half a mile west.
I adore to visit before dawn.
While the sky is still servent to the crest.
At last! I approach the elegant iron gate.
Covered with lucious vines of ivory.
But it took me a minute to find the door.
Chuckling, I finally turned the key.
I opened the door with melodrama,
As it groaned with old age.
I waltzed in and started to distinguish,
Scents of rose, honeysuckle, and sage.
A distinct joy falls over me,
As I saunter down the narrow pathway.
The rising sun spilling out pinks and orange,
Ah, what a peaceful day.
All I hear is my footsteps,
And a distinct tweeting sound.
The gentle wind picks up rose petals,
Which softly lowers to the ground.
This spring morning is a great example,
Of mother nature's magic.
Warm skys, bright colors, and joyful tunes,
Effects are calming, never tragic.
Under the apple tree, I found my mother's swing,
Rocking back and forth I felt so much at home.
More at home than I felt in months.
So that's why I started writing this poem.
I have to say, I learned a lesson,
Under this tree of Granny Smith.
-As beautiful as something might seem,
It's useless if you have no loved ones to share it with.