Home

I was not expecting a grand parade,
Coming home to this old place.
I was not looking for pomp and serenade,
Nor was I seeking the spiritless,
Hollow greetings from old
Forgotten friends.

I'm home.

The mealy eyes of little children
Watch me as I unpack my things,
Leaving my rod and reel propped up against
The ancient maple that Grandpa had planted
A lifetime ago with his bare hands.
And me, lighting a Camel
As raindrops dot the soft, dry earth
Like little insects.

Things haven't changed very much.

This is still home, still my home.
Even though the house creeks,
And mice scurry about in dusty,
Forgotten places,
And the roof needs some patching where the
Autumn sky bleeds through.

The shutters need a coat of new paint.
Green. Forrest Green,
Like Papa did in that first year
When the big hailstorm wiped out the cornfields
And the bank repossessed the new tractor that Papa
thought would save us.

Funny.

To believe a tractor could do all that.

This place,
It smiles at me,
Wide and full,
And I feel I belong here.