Sunday, January 17, 2021


Farm House

We passed a farm house atop a browned hill

Driving home on the interstate.

I wanted to pull over, sear it into mind
But my daughter was having none of it.
It was cold, mid January,
Everything a dulled shade of sepia.

The best I could hope 
Was that it would someday 
Populate an unborn poem
Like a flash of once again love,
The soft sifting of chalkboards erased,
The smell of my mom’s beef and bean stew,
The hazy imprecision of memory,
A life that time has merely defaced.


1 comment:

Thera Parks said...

I love this