It is a Red Bird kind of day as I carefully
walk the bramble-hedged path through
the forest that edged our home. I could
hear leaves crunching, not from my boots…
but a lighter slower movement.
I can hear the crusted creek running beside
the path flowing gently through vein like
openings in the ice. I can smell the wood
smoke from our fireplace.
I know that on the warming shelves of the
old wood stove are hot biscuits and ham
waiting for me to get home from scurrying
the forest for nuts and berries, a treat while
we sit around the fireplace listening to
grandpa’s latest tale of the war he fought in
during his youth.
Mother’s watching from the window for signs
of my bright colored hat she knitted me last
Christmas, she opened the door and waved;
I was late and she was worried. I showed her
my overflowing baskets, she smiled…I wanted
keep her happy so, I did not tell her about the
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