The Old Family Farm (2nd version)

is forgotten among the pasture
where November winds are colder
than a whisper of icicles.
This home of fallen timbers
weather-ravaged
a sanctuary for mice,
other creatures
sky peeking through apple trees
pussy willows alongside
a muddy bank
an album of memories
a reminisce. Our childhood swam
in that creek.
We chased cows
fed pigs
minded the chickens
helped momma and poppa
busy with chores. Then grew up into
city folk a long time ago.

first published April 15, 2010
Blue Skies Poetry
Edmonton, Alberta