The Farm

My grandpa’s farm.

Our family gathers here for all reasons:

Father’s Day,

birthday’s,

meeting the new puppies,

just saying hi…

Grandpa’s farm.

The stench of cows close by,

the familiar smell of my childhood.

the humid aroma of

r a i n

that we would play games in.

I swear the musty remnants

of those days so long ago

are still in the grass.

Grandpa Ron’s farm.

Hay bales are wrapped for the fall

in rows and rows,

stretching across the now barren field.

Perfect for climbing on top,

and racing your cousins

down the back of a snake covered in plastic

Ronny’s farm.

The first memory I have

is feeding the cows with Dad and

picking apples

in the stout trees,

now a whisper of a memory

in the empty backyard.

Where getting on the 4-wheeler

means taking a ride

back to the compact cabin

on the bluff,

where we hunt for mushrooms

in the autumn breeze.

Dad’s farm.

The boundaries are not quite known

between his home and the next.

Fields are open

and cows are ‘moo’-ing.

The clean scent of fresh-cut grass and

r a i n

greet one’s nose

as they travel down the gravel road

to a secluded homestead.

My grandpa’s farm.

The family was started here

all those generations ago.