Wednesday, November 15, 2017

On the Cusp of Winter

An unfamiliar car crunches slowly up my quarter-mile gravel driveway. I hope it’s not the Jehovah’s Witnesses again. An elderly lady climbs out of the driver’s seat. I  don’t want to intrude, she says, but I was born in this house, in 1938.  I just lost my husband, and I had a yen to see my homeplace again.  Her eyes swim with tears. She points to the well-house. I remember my Daddy climbing down into that well, she says. My, it was a long way down!

rising from a deep place  . . .
the last petals
of the autumn-blooming cherry
drift earthward

~Skylark 4:1, summer 2016

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