Poems of Home in the Northern Hills of Missouri

Something Familiar

There is a certain sound

from inside a car passing

close to the edge

of a timber

in the cooling evening

on a country road.

It is a sound filled with crickets

and cicadas

and the swish of leaves

as the car comes near on a curve.

It is the sound of all the hidden creatures,

the nesting birds, heads bending under their wings.

It is the beginning silent sounds

of signs in the sky,

the stars and the fireflies. It is the sound of a home, not far away, down

the road apiece.

There is a porch around the house

with lights in the window,

and ham frying on the stove

with a familiar sizzle.

This poem I wrote ten years ago after finding an old letter written by my Grandmother. I left her spelling intact.

Community

An old letter found

written almost thirty years ago;

my grandparents to my parents

on the birth of my first child:

"So glad its over & a boy."

The news of the letter comes

clearing away three decades

of life, like so much underbrush-

"weve got our potatoes dug.

Had about- 13 bushell."

All the habits of Sacramento

recede into the rounded hills

of fertile memories and soils.

"The butter beans are gone till

they bloom again. We canned

19 pints & gave away a lot."

Once again I am shaped by

community- "Shure good Gertudes

came up Sadur & brought supper &

stayed all night." Surrounded by

the stays of those who care:

"Fays came over after supper."

Once again weather weaves reality

through windy storm. I

know again the mixture

of awe, the need for shelter, for others:

"A big cloud came up after we went

to bed- We got up & went to the cave.

Had quite a storm."