A Place Called Home
A logging truck hauling along the rutted road
sun peaking over the eastern mountain.
I’m from baby starlings squawking for their first feeding.
a glowing fireplace, icy cold Busch beer, BBQ, bluebirds
dark soil, dogs song singing, daylilies, dame’s rocket.
I’m from fresh garden peas, farm eggs, morning glory, fur,
water gurgling, clouds dividing, lilacs lingering, green beans sprouting.
first spring crocus, frosty winter ice, fiery autumn leaves, fragrant summer roses.
four dog memorials, cats that never came back, rabbits that grew old,
funerals for neighbors too soon and weddings in the yard.
I’m from reminders in the handwritten recipe,
vivid orange trumpet vine, a blooming dogwood.
empty food dishes, a collar on a nail, and a photo of two black cats.
I’m from laughing at a joke, sharing a simple meal, saying a prayer,
early evening garden tours, and creating a place called home.
by Christy Woolum