Homestead #2


Libby stood gazing at the old homestead
Realizing the most vivid memories evoked were from the days beneath the
canopy Of the oak tree rather than within the walls of her home.
There was an absence of grass beneath the tree from hours spent on the swing.
The tree provided her with the perfect selection of twigs
To draw pictures in the earth, when the dirt was dry and loose.
She recalled swinging over her pictures barefoot
Lightly pressing with each pass, erasing the drawings, the adventures,
While dusting her toes.
The memory of twisting the swing around, shortening it with each turn
Until her feet could no longer touch the ground,
Libby would let loose and look up to see the world flicker and spin above her,
Feeling the thrill in her belly.
Gripping the hemp and leaning back as far as she could, she pumped her legs.
Keeping her eyes shut tight, she drifted into her imaginary world.
With a hand-stitched quilt and a tattered doll the swing was her horse, her carriage.

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