The Old Family Farm
is forgotten among the pasture
where November winds are colder
than a whisper of icicles.
This home of fallen timbers
weather-ravaged
a sanctuary for mice,
other creatures
sky peeking through apple trees
pussy willows alongside
a muddy bank
an album of memories
a reminisce. Our childhood swam
in that creek.
We chased cows
fed pigs
minded the chickens
helped momma and poppa
busy with chores. Then grew up into
city folk a long time ago.
~ Richard L. Provencher
Richard L. Provencher, from Rouyn-Noranda, Quebec, is retired. His poems are published in: Ottawa Arts Review, New Quarterly, Jones Ave, Paperplates, Carousel, Windsor Review, Tower Poetry and LitWit Review. His work combines a love of the outdoors with contemporary issues. He and his wife, Esther, live in Truro, Nova Scotia.
This is a lovely poem. Very thoughtful.
Thank you very much, Laura. I really enjoy writing poetry, and my wife is my main supporter. This poem has special meaning for me, since my wife’s old farmhouse at Cape Spear, New Brunswick was the model for these words. RLP