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Rated: E · Poetry · Biographical · #1536186
With thanks from a memory.
It wasn't very big you know,
our house up there on Poplar Hill.
It started as a chicken coop
with a single window sill.

Dad made it a home for us
with a privy in the rear,
a pump to get our water,
and a clothesline that was near.

Pine trees were all around us,
as far back as you could see.
We would spend many hours,
just climbing those big old trees.

I grew up and moved away,
as country kids often do.
But when I lay down at night,
I can see those skies so blue.

Before my sleep blankets me,
Mom waves from the window still,
in my fondest memories
of our house on Poplar Hill.

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