The Farm

My brother and I would spend days at our maternal grandparents farm when we were little. 17 acres of peace and quiet. It's sometimes true that you don't know what you have until it's gone.

Time seems to reconnect and form an image in the sky.

It lingers lightly overhead and whispers a savory sigh.

Reflecting a memory of a simple hearty farm.

A cozy, comfortable breeze settles around its rustic charm.

A proper land enriched with pine and maple through its core.

Pleasant blossoms billow promises for apples and pears galore.

Fresh cut grass winds up the steep, foster dreams for tomorrow.

Bumpy thrill on wagon wheels helps to off load our scraps of sorrow.

His daily steady pace packed with compassion is revealed.

And the stubborn backyard dinner bell clangs freely across the field.

Over the threshold, her gentle hug welcomes us inside.

A table set in modest fashion with a kiss of love and pride.

So grand to me was their farm in so many thoughtful ways.

Too young was I to appreciate all those brief long lasting days.

Oh to wander in the reverie only for awhile.

And treasure for eternity their blue eyed, upturned smiles.