My Lost Home

My lost Home

A two-door red pick up 

Grinding to shift gears

Popping of grease on the cast iron skillet

As he burns salted ham

Aftershave and a small comb

Tucked into his flannel pocket

The pond where he taught me to fish  

Reflecting in the humid air

Morning mist on my arms 

Waking up before the sun to visit the farm

Playing in the creek at the bottom of the hill

Returning with handfuls of Fool’s Gold

 

0

You might also like…

Poetry

An Unwanted Guest

Peter Barbour

I picked the rod tip up and swung it back to eleven o'clock, then snapped my wrist. The line flew out over the water, unfurling. At its maximum length, it settled on the water's surface with hardly a ... [+]

Poetry
Poetry

The Men in the Woods

Daniel Wallace

The men who live in the woods behind my house had been getting out of hand for some time. They were all in their mid-fifties, golfers formerly, and meat eaters -- jolly men in general -- but since ... [+]