I Am Home

October 25, 2017

You can hear the cars racing by, up and down woodward.
You can see the neighbor waves as he mows his already trimmed lawn.
And you can taste the diesel engines that work alongside the construction workers.
The sounds of lawn mowers pushing by hum.
The sound of engines being revved up vibrates my eardrums.
The uncesscored swears of the construction workers violate the air.
My gaze travels up into the blue sky
But I see a tree.


And for amount it is silent.
The wind breaks the silence with the whisper of a memory.
A memory of wind dancing through fields.
The smell of morning rain,
Sweet and kind.
The air is clean and quiet.
A sweet memory of home.
My father on the porch,
waiting for the cows to come in
Sipping his coffee
The rocking chair he sat in swaying back and forth
With the eerie sound of the porch crying a lullaby.
The sweet silent memory of home.
Where the deer and the antelope play.

The author's comments:

I grew up on an old dirt farm, I called that place home. I now live in busy Detroit.

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