GOING BACK

At Grandma's house the old Home Comfort
cook range roars with fire.
The aroma of sourdough fills the room
and fulfills the heart's desire.

The glistening snow, soft billowy-white
as Grandma's snow white hair,
And Grandpa's tales of buckaroos --
I yearn, that I am there.

A coyote howls his mournful cry.
It echoes through my mind.
The warmth of the old Home Comfort
not his. And, now, not mine.

The windmill stands in silence,
leaning somewhat toward the east.
The coyote howls again his cry,
and mine...the lonely beast.

I search for something that is gone,
a sign of time gone by...
And find a rusty horseshoe, bent and worn.
As worn, I fear, am I.

The rock wall by the garden gate
has tumbled down with age;
Selfish time -- unyielding time --
has turned it's brittle page.

The once green pastures, barren, dry,
where cattle then did roam.
The old "Home Comfort" lonely stands
amid ruins that once were home.

I parallel the weeping willow,
a fate though not I chose...
And beside the fallen garden gate,
pluck a solitary, wild rose.


cj 10/24/84

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