JANE HUTTO
Weep No More, My Lady

I am careful now,
for fireflies' lights have dimmed
and contemplative measures
seem the order of my days,
but could a flight of fancy take one back
to where soft dew-drenched grasses
parted beneath our barefoot feet,
and running hand-in-hand we found
an open well where stars had wedged
themselves one summer night,
no compartmentalized decisions could catalog
my path, nor would a calculated risk
dismiss or turn its back on love.

JANE HUTTO
The Road to Lake Logan

Like a road to yesterday
Highway 29 ripples northwards
Past primitive timbers,
Long flounces of Queen Anne's lace,
And seemingly unending sourwood stands.
The two travelers, lost in contemplative reflections,
Anticipate their return to the lake,
Its unforgettable allure a beckon
To those long caught in assembly lines or automation.
An array of memories offers a network of choices,

There awaits a maygarden of delights,
A testimonial to the meadowland of hope--
Built on the architecture of conscientious pursuits.