Poem Photo.tiff

The Nightingale sings,

When dusk takes to falling.

Seems like over the hayfields,

I can hear Papa calling.

His straw hat still damp,

From the heat of the day.

Rolling toward supper,

He always would say.

June spoke a language,

As folks understood.

To plant and harvest,

All God's bounty they could.

A fruit jar of flowers,

Graced cornbread and greens,

Berry cobbler stained faces,

with summer dreams.

We were happy as Doves,

In a Crepe Myrtle's arms.

Innocence preserved,

By life on the the farm.

At my age sitting quietly,

God swings back the gate.

Time is a thief,

I dare not hesitate.

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