Old Trees

I want
old trees--
gnarled fingers grasping
the wind, bony knees and
wizened toes digging in
amongst the wild flowers.
I want old trees--silvered
canopies shading
ancient stone fences.
I want old trees--shaggy barked,
knurl boughed: perfect
for an old rope swing
with bottom smoothed seat.
I want an old stone house
with a crooked chimney,
with lead-paned windows
that crank open and a cozy porch
with two old chairs for rocking away a summer eve.
I want to look out at ducks fishing
in an overgrown pond
as deer graze sweet grasses.
Then, should I be of a mind,
I can meander beneath
grandfather oaks
barefoot
on leafy carpets
and know
I am home.