This Is Home

Where amber hills of tilled earth,

and rolling waves of jade grass

meet the thick, artificial banks

of crumbling tar roads.

This is my home.

Where white and peeling walls

of ancient house and barn reach

alongside a tiled silo

towards the cobalt sky

Their metal cupolas

and black shingled roofs

wrought with rough, dry moss.

This is my home.

Where the hayfield grows golden and tall

strewn with wild indigo chicory,

trailing purple loostrife,

soft yellow daisies,

and Mustard-weed.

They pepper the field

with the accents of their bright color.

Where crickets chirp melodically

to the rising temperature of the hot afternoon sun

as it peeks through cotton clouds.

Their legs brushing the spines on their legs

to make music of their cacophony.

This is my home.

Where four baby goats gain their bearings

as they hop upon dewy grass

and clusters of dandelions.

They pause,

for a drink of warm milk

from their mother’s bulging udder.

Where a basset trots around her yard

to secretly bury her rawhide bone.

And bays as the cats jingle

on their way past her white fence,

waiting,

to enjoy the taste of

warm viscera

from their freshly caught mice.

Where a red horse flaunts himself stylishly,

whinnying and bucking,

tearing up the grass with his tough hooves

as his mane waves like fire in the wind.

All of this to catch the fleeting attention

of the mare in the lower pasture.

This is my home.

Where an old woman bends at the waist

to cut long strands of flowers

to fill her bursting handle basket:

Dahlias, Asters, Snap-dragons, and stiff Status.

Where the day is warm

and her hair is plastered to her neck.

She dries it with the red hanky

that was neatly tucked away in her pocket,

then stands and welcomes both the cool breeze

and her husband, joyously, into her dainty arms.

This is my home.

Where arms are always welcoming

and hearts, and stomachs, are always full;

And the sugary scent of fresh cookies graces my senses.

Sigh.

They are too hot to eat; licking the bowl will have to do!

This is my home.

Where clothes are hand-me-downs

and J-Crew …

is the name of the neighborhood band.

It's two doors down.

Where the family business is a 250 year old farm.

The last 30 acres of a land that stretched to the rolling sea.

And my penthouse view is from the top of the warm, 

sweet smelling hayloft.

Where time seems to slow,

The modern influence disappears like smog over a city;

Revealing sanctuary, my sanctuary

from the mechanized,

industrialized,

automatized,

and hypnotized society.

This is my home.