Sunday Drive Back Home
I drove back to our old home place today,
with the lonesome ache of memories for company.
Now, I stand by a thistle strewn cow pasture.
Let the dry summer wind steal my tears.
A black walnut tree used to spread across heaven,
shading the back of our three-porch house.
Laughter and tears still echo down the hall
and into the ghost parlor of my childhood.
Here is where four children grew,
blossomed wild as roses in the meadow.
I close my eyes. I can almost hear
my Daddy calling cows in for hay.
See how a long line of blacktop snakes its way
across our meadow and into the far horizon.
The roses and walnut tree are gone.
Not even a stump is left standing.
Nothing remains but two tall rock chimneys,
bittersweet guardians of my childhood,
pointing into a grey Georgia sky.
And me, stone still by the barbed wire.
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
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