Memories Made To Ponder

It was a tin-roof wooden house standing Across the red brick cobblestone street Adjacent to a wide open field full Of shady live oak and sweet smelling tangerine trees where My father’s boyhood home was nestled Quietly in his home town. Often times we’d travel to visit The grandparents still living there In that Americana corner of our lives. We didn’t know much of anything at all except The sky was blue, love was true and we Youngsters were the apples of the old folk’s eyes. We’d sit for hours in white wicker rocking chairs I helped paint one time with newspaper on the floor And a horsehair brush grandma gave me To teach me that painting needn’t be a lesson In staying between the lines. “Sometimes,” she’d say, “It’s better to let the paint flow And speak for itself in time.” And granddad liked to watch the sky – especially at night When stars were burning bright and would point towards Polaris and say: “Heaven’s over that a-way.” And during daylight hours When storm clouds appeared and we could hear Thunder and lightning all around, he’d laugh and dance As if the circus were coming to town. We watched mocking birds and blue jays flying in and out Of all the tree top branches and leaves singing Their love making lullabies to us and one another and then As quickly as they arrived, Disappeared into the wind. It seems we’re not much different Rather family, foe or friend. Accordingly, the old house still stands today But the dear old folks have slipped away. Perhaps to the place once pointed to High above that night sky view Where comets roam and grandpa liked to call “Up yonder,” Leaving me with thoughts of gold And memories made to ponder.