The Homestead

“The Homestead” In my dreams I still see the house – The old country place Nestled among the Mesquite trees That whispered a welcoming chant. The grandmother stands bent over A cabinet rolling out dough for oversized biscuits While bacon sizzles on the stove in a cast iron skillet. The grandfather reclines behind a newspaper From his favorite chair, As he studies the latest prices of cattle While contemplating the cost of feed. The great grandfather swings From the front porch Crooning a long forgotten tune, As he balances a granddaughter on his knee. The mother holds a babe in her arms In the frayed rocking chair While crooning an old tune That has been passed down From one generation to the next. The sights, the scenes, the smells Have never left me, Not in so many, many years later. I can still see the rock well And recall peering down Into its’ menacing darkness. I can still smell the succulence Of the old cellar And see its’ plenteous walls Lined with jars of jellies and jams, And so many other bountiful delights. In times of a need for comfort, I go back. Back to where I was once An innocent, harbored child. I walk the barren ground Searching for some ancient existence Of a time that once was. And if I’m lucky I find some ancient relic, A rusted tricycle wheel, A broken Mason jar, A splintered chicken coop. And I am transported back, Back again into that innocence, Back into that blissful lifestyle That I have secreted away So deep inside my heart For all these countless years. And, as I turn to go, I look back once again And see a mirage of the old place - So vivid, still standing, And drink in once again the memory Of the sights, the smells, the sounds of love That I will carry in my heart forever… 04/14/18 By J.B. Pearce