poems*

No. 11

Fertile dirt scrunching underfoot,

His boots are old, older than they look,

His father wore them proudly, as does he,

The soft leather is worn a bit,

Some of it is stained and tearing slightly,

Dust still settles into the laces, painting gray,

On a black surface,

His jeans hold the same look;

Old, and worn through, 

Gray stitched into the deep blue,

His belt was a deep brown at one point, 

But it now is much more lighter, and faded,

The newest looking thing he has on is his jacket,

Which bright pink color seemed to contradict the rest,

But even that has torn cuffs, and a faded image,

His steps across the yard are slow, 

Like watching sand dry,

He gazes around, searching with wide eyes,

His smile is seemingly from disbelief, 

But it's wide and ever growing,

His eyes are tinged and watery,

He spins in a circle amongst the dirt, 

Taking in the trees, the brush,

The hanging moss and creeping willows,

The wide open grounds and small little buildings, 

The old stone houses and gravel laid driveway,

Finally he stops and looks to the old oak door,

And the woman standing there,

If his smile could widen, it did,

"Home"