That Old Farm

is buried under pastures of time

where November winds are colder

than icicle-whispers.

This home of fallen timbers

met the elements, night and day

a sanctuary for mice and

other creatures

sky peeking through apple trees

pussy willows alongside

a muddy bank.

Our memory-album 

a reminisce. Childhood swam

in the creek.

We chased cows

fed pigs

minded the chickens

helped momma and poppa

busy with chores. Then grew into

city folk a long time ago.