My Valley Green Poem by DONALD SCHUSTER

Thousands of fortnights ago, long before makers of myths put words onto paper, heaven stopped to make a small valley and the sharp mountains beyond. They are rugged and majestic, standing tall and silent covered with a pure white snow and adorned with deep green titans. To the east lies an ocean so blue its' vast emptiness defies meaning.
Countless rivers and little streams flow, helping the earth bring forth an abundance so rich the sky is filled with the scent of cherry and peach.
But history is not just rivers and trees, it's the journey of messengers who fill the quest with dreams of heaven. The purest of souls found this a paradise and rested here taking to life, not to conquer but to find harmony, to share the bounty with all God's creatures. There was no time, only life.
If the early quest was pure, newer messengers arrived with flawed notions. They thought they were pitted against the wilderness struggling to find purchase for their restless vision. Ill-timed battles raged with a blurred intent.
They brought war on the oaks, maples, and pines dense as they stretched beyond eyesight.
They fought the waters that bred salmon, forever ending a cycle so enduring many thought it would never end.
They dueled the simple woven homes that later became forty-story temples of steel and concrete.
Their coats of arms brought an invisible misery and death which once shared had no cure.
Once stood paths of grass that made for idle homage next to the gentle brook making prayer a part of nature. But the new messengers sought hurried routes, trading away harmony for commerce and ambition.
The names of Adsila/flower blossom, Chilali/ snowbird, and Inti/ the sun, faded thrown to the side as the Meeks, Lee, and Pittocks took center stage. Harmony and Oneness were left wanting while ambition and industry found fuel. Gone were the days of quiet prayer obeying all that the land gives. These newer interlopers replaced all with a new reverence for determination.
Yet the valley prospered. The black earth yielded a plenty even God could admire. The hills filled the earth with a bounty yielding riches of never-ending delight. Families grew, their families grew, and their families grew.
New homes of wood and brick became old, new names became old names, and they became older names, turning all into an ancient past no longer felt or remembered.
But on a sunny day when all is still, I can hear the quiet. The waters still gently flow with the language of green. The air is still filled with cherries and peach. And I can feel the oneness that was calling so long ago.

This Valley, My Valley, My Home.