by Brenda Kay Ledford
In the gap of Shewbird Mountain,
I revisit the old home place.
Perhaps it is the taste
of churned buttermilk, the smell
of cornbread baking in Grandma’s
Dutch oven over the fireplace,
maybe the memory of sorghum syrup
Grandpa made each fall from cane.
I remember my childhood:
Harold pulling Rover and me
in a red wagon, swimming
with cousins in Hyatt Mill Creek.
Bantam chickens cackled and scratched
hieroglyphics in the barnyard.
The goat ate clothes off the line,
Mama shooed him with her apron.
Revisiting the space, I steal
a moment on the front porch:
whippoorwills whistling, catching
lightning bugs in a Mason jar.
I can still hear Grandma
calling us to supper as clouds unfurled
across the Matheson Cove like
marigolds twirling their skirts.
Image: by Jan Mallander via pixabay.com