A narrow sandy road, steep ditches, rolling over hills,
bottomless in the rain, a wheel swallowing mud, almost
too narrow for passing when dry, and ruts that are guides
in the wind and rain, led to a house on one of the endless
western hills of the High Plains.
That house, clapboard, whitewashed, two story, in the middle
of detached buildings, an old rusty red barn, and a small clubhouse
with a well-kept yard of miscellaneous weeds and prairie grass.
That home where a thin, auburn haired, country girl with thin lips, freckles, blue eyes, and paradoxically pale skin, lived and burned
atop a tractor in the fields working with her father, became my bride
after moving to a town far away from where her heart was planted.
In a way, she was torn between two loves, her childhood home and
our life together. The sadness in her eyes never left. Yet she always had a smile for me. And we visited her past as often as my time allowed.
When the old home died and her parents moved on to unworldly fields, I made it up to her with long rolling roads and empty fields filled with nature and patient hours along lake beaches and sunsets.
But she never went home again. Former lives fade away.
She made the best of it, sadness in the eyes, and smiles for me.
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Author:
JDB (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: August 31st, 2024 08:05
- Comment from author about the poem: She missed her home and loved ours. We always went there until it was gone. Her home sat on a hill in northwestern Kansas, a place filled with history of indigenous people, and the conflict between them and the settlers. It is an empty, mostly treeless area with a stark beauty of its own and farmers who would rather die than leave their farms. Now it is overrun with corporate farms. A few farmers, my deceased wife's brothers and families among them, that manage to hang on while farming and working as professionals in other careers at the same time. Their wives usually also work as either teachers or nurses, or in local businesses. Some of them feel that it is at the edge of the world and would have it no other way. A joke out there is when they are asked what they grow. They say, "fence posts." My deceased wife's brothers, one is a farmer there. The other moved away and is a doctor of ancient history in another state. That brother is retired. The older brother is still farming.
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Comments2
I can relate to this poem. I love my home and my life, but I will always pine for my childhood home, my parents and my siblings. This is a lovely tribute to your late wife who would have appreciated your understanding. Much enjoyed JDB.
Thank you for your very kind words.
Beautiful poetry. 🌹
Thank you for your kind words.
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