Retreat to Moms ~
Napping on the old worn sofa, head on faded pillow,
while songs from kitchen clang and eggs crack in the skillet
Old wind chimes dance and tinker, tempered with a hint of rust,
orchestrating weather from pink dawn to gray dusk.
Wrens scatter seed from silver pan and blue jay scolds by door,
a hummer dips and sips from sugar water, refreshment in the plastic flower.
Soft chenille of green remembers printing grass stains on chubby knees,
when puckered lips blew dandelions in the summer breeze.
A peanut tree was hammered deep years ago by persistent beak;
a fun surprise for Mom Iíd say, when blue bird planted it one day.
Peach seed got its chance to strut with luscious fruit much more robust
than the County fairís entries; Momís famous cobblers made with ease.
Alas, no avocadoes on the vine; yet leaves were soft on our bare feet.
Its shade will be remembered fine,
a great umbrella from the heat with babies cooing underneath.
But it was that big corner tree that had a childhood spell on me -
smooth and cool against my cheek it lent to games of hide and seek.
Nipped and scarred from beaks and claws, a lower limb was darkly marred.
In crook of arm where bracelet rope was looped around and tied for swing,
weíd shriek with chimerical whims, whirling free, out and in.
Itís knobby texture thick and bruised from all our kicks and shims,
it savored age before it fell with pageantry of fun indwelled;
held sacredly in forest grave reliving joys in early days.
Not only that but all the tracks of needled paws and whiskered jaws
that sought refuge in its height; opossums, cats, and evening bats.
We spread old blankets down upon the poking knuckled roots,
dressed cats in doll clothes, played board games and ate the neighborís fruit.
Now coffee wafts ore wooden sills and butterflies kiss daffodils,
sweet muffins lifted off the rack, in Motherís home time turns back.
Psalm 118: 24 This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice
and be glad in it.
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