The Place I Call Home
snow clouds fill the sky
scattered crows like black comets
silloutted against them
their angry discourse
echoing over the field below
corn husk rustles underfoot
where a forlorn stalk remains
the token of summer glory
a season well spent
naked branches black and brittle
like gnarled fingers
reach up to mark the sky
smoke rises from the chimney
of a weathered farmhouse
windows aglow with lamplight
the place I call home
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