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.
© Copyright 2016 rlvs. All rights reserved.
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