Country Lives Poem by Liilia Talts Morrison

Country preachers, country wives
Country teachers, country lives
Long forgotten now their sighs
As they watched old, plain ways die

Water pitchers made of clay
Butter churns in pantries lay
Rocking chairs and porches creaked
Sundays marked the coming week

Barefoot children walked to school
Splashed in puddles to keep cool
Picking berries in the ditch
Thorns and chiggers made them itch

We will never see again
Those slow days when country men
Sawed pine logs for iron stoves
As their women baked warm loaves

There’s no use to mourn and pine
For church picnics crisp and fine
Pies that burst with fragrant fruit
No foul words mouths would pollute

Those days rest in haunted lairs
Where but ghosts of memories dare
On a sleepless hour prepare
Nightmares digging up those layers

Country preachers, country wives
Country teachers, country lives
Why do I still hear their cries
Binding me with painful ties?