by Richard L. Provencher
3/09/2012 / Poetry
is a shamble of forgotten shapes
struggling for balance
among an unkempt pasture.
The old home weather-ravaged
fallen timbers a sanctuary for
mice and other furry creatures
sliver of sky peeking through the
last dusty window pane
with apple trees and pussy
willows pouting aside the river bank.
This leftover scene an album
of reminiscing. As children
we swam Muddy Creek chased
cows and fed our pigs
minding free-range chickens
helping momma and poppa busy
with chores. Then grew
into city folk a long time ago.
Richard L. Provencher
Dear Readers: My wife, Esther and I, are pleased to share our Copyright work which you may use freely for non-commercial purposes. We appreciate all comments on our efforts. Send to: firstname.lastname@example.org. We live in Truro, Nova Scotia, Canada. Pray for family and friends. Also learn to forgive.
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