Curtis Johnson Poet Prose Poetry

Crying Or Vines

A little concrete house sat about 100 yards from the road.
It was here I fell in love with lightning bugs and toads.
It was a very lovely little place filled with love and joy.
I was born and lived there the first 17 years of my life.

To fight the heat, three trees surrounded this my gentle abode.
It was situated in a little delta village in Northern Mississippi.
I moved away in the sixties, but saw it last in the seventies.
I was saddened when told years later that it no longer exists.

The spot where it once stood is covered with crops of various
sorts.  I dare say that it would have been covered with vines                   instead of fields of grain, had it not been such a fertile place.
No matter what covers it, I will always recognize its gentle trace.

Yes, it was indeed a fertile place, not only for crops of foods and clothing.   This rich habitation grew life and laughter.  It was a place where chickens lay their eggs and where mother taught us to pray.
O what a dear place, where we played, and none of us went astray.

Perhaps I shall again visit this place of my humble abode before my demise.  Although I do not expect to see a trace of vines, I cannot
promise the absence of tears nor sounds of crying.
10062016 cj PS Contest, Overgrown With Vines, Broken Wings

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