Some folks say Heaven’s streets are paved with gold,
They may be right, but tell me, if you know,
Will there be woods like those by Tatum Creek,
Will there be horseback riding through new snow?
Take no offense in answers I now seek:
Throughout my life I’ve not gone far from home,
But I have been to Tatum Creek and rode
My horse where turkeys roost and whitetail roam.
In Heaven will I hear the hoot owl’s ode,
Or feel chilled air or smell sweet chimney smoke?
Do evergreens wear cloaks of purest white,
Do berries grow beneath a Spanish oak?
Would God’s own home not have this wooded sight,
Where peace is borne upon a winter’s wind?
Perhaps I’ll have to wait and someday see
What lies in store around the frozen bend.
If Heaven’s streets are gold by crystal sea,
Then in the woods by Tatum Creek I’ll be. Dedicated to M.C. and Margaret Jenkins |
