by Richard L. Provencher
2/11/2011 / Poetry
is a forgotten shamble of
shapes struggling for balance
above an unkempt pasture.
Our old home as fallen timbers
a weather-ravaged sanctuary
for mice and other creatures
a sliver of sky peeking through
one last dusty window pane
apple trees and pussy willows
pouting aside the river bank.
The leftover scene provides an
album of reminiscing. As children
we swam in the creek chased cows
fed pigs minded the chickens
helped momma and poppa always
busy with chores. Sadly we grew
into city folk a long time ago.
Â Richard L. Provencher
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