Late winter fog could not conceal
Greening of the willow,
Not far from where our sleepy heads
Succumbed to feather pillows.
I remembered calloused hands,
So rough picking daffodils.
To leave a token of unspoken love,
On brother's windowsill.
Bare feet eager for warming earth,
Toes sought the feel of grass.
Scolding laughter from the clothesline,
When we ran too fast.
Cold buttermilk on upper lips,
Biscuits on the stove.
Sometimes our cow got on the porch,
Took a notion just to rove.
Life is like a visit,
From a humming bird, I'd say,
A flash of all God's brilliant works,
Then up and gone away.
I walked along the old well path,
For whisperings I can hear,
Old-timer's voices on honeysuckle breeze,
Wishing they were here.