It is not the same now
The arms that held her are gone
But oh, in my mind is an echo defined
That somehow lives on and on
Cradled by two weeping willows
I thrived in their sighing embrace
Now the ghost-willow trees frame fond memories
Of my dear, unforgotten home-place
I cherish the humble brick dwelling
Of panel and paint decor
But the sweet echo of nine siblings I love
Drench the walls and the floor
The old wood-stove in the kitchen
Served as cook-stove, laundry and hair dryer
In the winter we woke to the smell of smoke
As mom rekindled the fire…
…and set the pot of oatmeal a-boiling
Ready for ‘farmer's’ breakfast at eight
Midst the chatter of those nine siblings I love
As we would argue, discuss or debate
Until Farmer’s firm, unchallenged ‘QUIET!’
Dropped the up-roar to a hush
And all that was heard was the slurp and stir
Of ten respectful children eating ‘mush’
I learned as a young teenager
Which steps to skip at late-night, cause they squeaked
But no matter how I would tiptoe or prowl
Somewhere an errant board creaked
…and casually at breakfast
The cereal box became a shield
Until Farmer cleared his throat, (we always looked when he spoke)
And the culprit was revealed
The furniture was scarred and battered
The rooms lived in to the max
But home was a place of learning and grace
Where we worked hard and where we could relax
Often in the evening it was quiet
As we set aside our work and our play
To find our own nook and curl up with a book
The highlight at the end of a day
© Janet Martin
