by Richard L. Provencher
6/03/2011 / Poetry
is a shamble of forgotten
shapes struggling for balance
in an unkempt pasture.
The old home is weather-ravaged
fallen timbers a sanctuary for
mice and other furry creatures
a sliver of sky peeks through one
last dusty window pane,
apple trees and pussy willows
pouting aside the river bank.
This leftover scene is an album
for reminiscing. As children
we swam Muddy Creek, chased
cows and fed the pigs
minding free-range chickens
helping momma and poppa, always
busy with chores. And sadly we
grew into city folk a long time ago.
Richard L. Provencher
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