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Oil Field Child

By Sandy Carroll

When April lays quiet on my shoulders,

I visit the old oil fields.

Where Bluebonnets surrounded our dusty bare feet,

Oh, what memories they yield.

The air now clear of the smell of oil,

The pump jacks groan no more.

Inside the vacant lease house,

I lean against the door.

Why do old hearts seek return?

Is it to wonder why?

They were born and raised an oil patch child,

Beneath a Texas Sky.

Daddy's work clothes covered with oil and grease,

Mama labored on each day.

While we ran among the prickly pear,

In imaginary play.

Bible verses echoed,

Over cold linoleum floors.

Mama said Jesus lived in the oil field too,

His pictured hung by our door.

When April lays quiet on my shoulders,

I return where my childhood began.

Beneath these towers of iron and steel,

In an unpredictable land.

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