Going back to the homestead always
brings precious thoughts unfolding,
like a well-crafted scarf used only seasonally.
If I try hard,
I can just about smell the sweetgrass,
on the gentle breeze, as we whisk
past acre after acre of ranchland.
When we re-fueled in the metropolis
of Dakota City, leaving the grand
Mississippi with her steep banks awash
in summertime flora viewed in our rearview mirror,
I knew we were just few hours away
from gram and pops homestead.
It wasn't long when I start looking
ahead, on the flat as a pancake roadway,
for that little two - pump gas station
where grandpop used to take to me on
the John Deere after he tilled until the sun
was nearly halfway down in the western sky.
We would grab an ice-cold cola and sit alongside
the sheriff's police cruiser and pops with start spinning
a long tale about when the sheriff was a young-man
like me.
Then the memories just fade into the sunset.
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Author Notes
A PICTURE THIS CLUB ENTRY
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