by Don Two
Thinking back about my uncle's farm.
|From patches of childhood memory
I see the narrow driveway
leading to my uncle's farm;
it slipped down
through a shallow field
at the very western edge of Ohio.
I see blurs of the hayloft
in the drafty, red barn,
of the meandering meadow,
of the slate roof
on the tiny house.
A heavy snow would impose
a hardship on my uncle;
the farm sat far from the road.
Across the green and flowing grasses
of summer you could see
the turnpike towards the horizon.
An old tractor slumped in furrows
of knee-deep weeds,
a pale, yellow relic
tilling fall silhouettes.
There were many fascinating things to do,
many things to see, yet much
of what I did and saw are forgotten.
Only a few farm-patches are visible,
like stalks of malnourished grass
peeking up through the snow.