A sleepy old farmhouse
once bordered near the edge of town.
She is surrounded now by wider streets
and busy boulevards.
Wouldn't find her in the finest
neighborhood.
She was always happiest on the humble
ground where she stood.
The trees grow tall here
because
the people let them grow.
In the yard a majestic black walnut
spreads its ancient branches
giving shelter to the sprouting plants below.
Countless Spring Victory gardens flourished
here year after year in the backyard not too long ago.
Though once this country house was hemmed in by
tumbleweeds and near-desert,
Now we sit in lawn chairs and breathe in abundance...
lilies, lilacs, peonies,
rose bushes of every variety, in every hue.
Vegetables, both regular and ones you haven't imagined,
and half a dozen varieties of berries polka-dotting through
the straw that smells so fresh
that everything seems covered in light dew.
Little farmhouse, you've seen several generations
be born, live and die within your walls.
The winds have whistled through your windows
and songbirds have warbled songs on your sills
and made their house calls.
When Grandma Alta spread the birdseed.
All the picnics and birthdays we had in the high grass
as all the grandkids kept growing up like weeds,
how quickly the years did pass.
More than a hundred years stacked up with
memories left to sift through from the attic
to your lower floors and walls.
You've kept your secrets then shared them well...
until your floorboards and stairs creaked in a strong wind
and hinted at pioneer stories an old farmhouse
has yet to tell.
Hopefully you, old gal. will continue on
another 100 years and dwell
long enough to give us and the passers-by some pleasure
as they smell your Spring gardens
and linger at your gates.
And then wonder at your infinite ease
and think of sitting on your front porch swing
and sipping sour-sweet lemonade
in noon-day devilish heat.
This and even another lifetime
I would soon repeat
within your softened shoulders.
If you had your way,
dear house,
there would always be
the rippling voices of laughter,
and the tears and trials too
the hardships, disappointments
and the best of times hereafter.
The brightness
of joy forever shining through.
To be you, old house, is all you know how to do.
Life is to be lived,
and you've had your share of living too.
When I remember 444 Goodnight, I recall
the abiding love
of Grandparents
whenever we came to call.
And when it was time to say good-bye,
I might have blinked in the sun
but I am pretty sure I saw
your shutters
flutter
in a knowing wink or two...
as if to say
you come back now, little M,
I'll be right here
waiting
just
for
you.
Copyright March 2, 2012 All Rights Are Reserved By The Author
Melissa A Howells Meloo of Tilt-a-World
This is a real place and a real address.
This poem is for the happy child in me and for everyone else too.
