I WISH I COULD . . .  put my bare feet into a stream of water and be a child again.

Yvonne & Freeda Baker

Yvonne & Freeda Baker

Beside the Creek in Autumn

I wish I could feel the sun warm upon my back as I walk barefoot down a dusty road in summer.

I wish I could touch the velvety soft moss that grows in the woods, and hear again the crackle of dry leaves under my feet. Heaven is here on Earth in the forests. Nature is the pure, clean sparkling beauty that God gave us to enjoy.dsc_0081dsc_0085

I wish I could . . . hear again . . . the whippoorwill across the hollow on a still, warm night. And the mockingbird that perched on the roof of the house, singing sweetly, when I returned from a date.. . . the sounds of my happy teenage world. dsc_0661
I wish I could see again the morning sun upon the tall, thick yard grass in the spring at Banner Mountain.

My happy memory–the wonder of love in my heart for God, my love for Nature and for the people who love me.


Listen to the Mockingbird . . .

parent mockingbird watches over her babies  in the hedge bush

parent mockingbird watches over her babies
in the hedge bush

Baby Mockingbird

Baby Mockingbird

parent mockingbird

Baby Mockingbird

Baby Mockingbird

watches over the young
after August rain

hedge bush sways in breeze
parent bird carries insects
to the baby birds

the mockingbird’s sound
not the song of another —
keeps her babies hid

© Freeda Baker Nichols

At Home on the Mountain — Day 14 — NaPoWriMo


Chicks (Photo credit: SimonM.)

Bumble bees are buzzing by,
headed for the hollyhocks.
Cow bell’s steady ding and dong
in the distance, beyond rocks.
Hear the rat-a-tat-tat-tat
of woodpecker drilling holes
in loblolly pine and oak
and in barnyard fencing poles.
Hear the whistle of a hawk
flying low in early spring.
Hear big, red hen cluck to chicks
to get underneath a wing.
On Banner Mountain, at night–
hear whispering through the trees—
mockingbird harmonizing
with the rustle of a breeze.

Copyright, 2013, Freeda Baker Nichols

Wrapped in Wonder

I love the night and stars and voice of birds
that through the dark can belt a song which trills
so sharp and clear it seems they sing with words.
The sound comes back to me from blackened hills.

Tree frogs clutched rough bark and they, too,
joined the serenade

of mockingbird that perched on slanted top
of house.  When I came home at night, her song
was smooth and loud and other sounds would stop–
I listened–felt akin to one born free.

A June bug, with string attached to leg,
buzzed from the lilac bush.

So much has changed since carefree teenage years
but still the nature that I love calls out
in baby robin’s squeak, in raindrop tears
and rabbit ice that spews from winter sprout.

The whippoorwills now call from
distant, darkened hills.

These joys will ever be my quilt, I pray,
and blanket me with warmth each icy day.

Copyright, 2013, Freeda Baker Nichols

Called a Sonakit, this form was created by Kitty Yeager, a member of
Poets’ Roundtable of Arkansas. It has free verse added between the
stanzas of a Shakespearean sonnet.