I wrote this poem about growing up in a little brown house that sat at the foot of the mountain. My sisters, my baby brother and I roamed the fields and woods free as the birds and bees. We grew up poor and times were hard but some memories are imprinted forever and grow sweeter with time.
That little brown house that used to be
is clear as a bell in my memory
set at the foot of the mountain slope
the stream ran through the pasture
to the valley below
Bushy peach trees and tall pecans
flowering apples and sweet juicy plums
the tallest straightest sycamore trees
branchy cottonwood with purple flowers
in our knotty rope swing we swung by the hour
Our junebugs the greenest you’ve ever seen
high in the sky legs tied with string
The grave yard lay on top of the hill
stones old and weathered or no longer there
long abandoned by kith and kin
who themselves lay in some lonely grave
in new cemeteries out of the glade
We children solemnly visited there
bringing wild flowers in early spring
mountain green mosses in winters reign
We grieved for the dead especially the babes
in the cold bleak ground that over them lay
We played in the creek on hot summer days
made play houses in green leafy shade
jumped the ditches and climbed the trees
wild and free as birds and the bees
Times were hard in those days long ago
not enough food not enough clothes
throughout the winters we were cold
But summers were long and doubly sweet
across all the years and seas of time
they lay warm and gentle on my mind.
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http://authspot.com/poetry/bones-of-old-trees/
http://authspot.com/poetry/august-evening/
http://authspot.com/poetry/good-old-times/
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