Homestead #8


It’s ninety-four outside and still as an empty rocking chair.
Mother insisted on visiting the old vacant homestead to retrieve
A memory or two.
I stamped down the weeds bursting with grasshoppers to clear a path for her.
Holding my arm to steady herself, she tells me the boards above the porch,
The ones splayed like piano keys,
Remind her of the music, the dance and the laughter
That once shook the horsehair lath.
On Saturday nights they‘d open the door and roll up the rugs to create a dance floor
Welcoming folks to celebrate life.
We stood for a reflective moment and I felt her pat my hand
She had relived enough and was ready to go.
The following evening and for many to come
I revisited the old vacant homestead where the door’s still open
And the meadowlark sings

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