In the next yard, swings
for children born, grown and gone
while we were away.
Where the ponies grazed–
came to the fence for nose rubs–
houses row on row.
There, Squirrel parents told stories
of an old man who handfed
pancakes to them all.
We sit, the old man’s children, waiting on the porch
as squirrels climb down from their trees
to greet long-lost friends.
Copyright © 2000/2010/2015, by Elizabeth W. Bennefeld. All Rights Reserved.
*I’m thinking that this should be titled “Coming Home” instead.
Poetry 101: Rehab on 6 April 2015.