I miss the farm, the open spaces, the Familiar places, the haymow where we Played after church on Sunday Afternoons. I miss the woods where we searched for Mushrooms and the "crick" where we Netted minnows. I miss cradling fluffy chicks in my hands and Being pushed on the rope swing tied on a Branch of our red maple tree. I miss the smell of hay, just mown, in the Summer and a leaf bonfire in the fall. I miss the apple orchard and the luscious Cider Dad brought home from Oberlander's Mill transported in cleaned out milk cans loaded Onto the bed of his pick up truck. I miss apple butter making day as we took turns Stirring the sauce in a copper kettle over an Open fire. I miss the 8 of us sitting around the table which was Covered with a red checkered cloth loaded down With Mom's fried chicken and mashed Potatoes. I miss the prayers each of us recited before We were allowed to dig in. Only in my memory can I go back home, and I Can't linger there for long, just for the Moments and musings it takes to write a Poem. I must move on. But especially, on a crisp fall morning I miss the farm. |