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Poetry By: rlvs

from the American heartland

Submitted:Nov 8, 2006    Reads: 125    Comments: 2    Likes: 0   

Snow clouds fill the sky,

scattered crows, like black comets,

silloutted against them.

Their angry discourse,

echoing over the fields below.

A corn husk crunches underfoot,

where the forlorn stalk remains.

The token of summer's glory,

a season well spent.

Naked branches, black and brittle,

like gnarled fingers,

reach up to mark the sky.

Smoke rises from the chimney,

of a weathered farmhouse.

Windows glowing with lamplight,

the door never locked.

Here I left my mother's womb,

on the same kitchen table I sit at now.

The same fireplace burns still,

warming me now as it did then.

In this house memories live,

gathered over a lifetime.

Comforting and familiar,

like dear old friends.

Leave worldy riches to others,

seekers of fortune and fame.

This is where I belong,

the place I call home.


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