Two windows, two front doors at this old frame
house where once a family lived long ago.
I listen; it seems I hear children’s names
called by their mother dressed in calico.
Today, the pear tree’s blooms are softest white
and ripple when the springtime breezes blow.
The old house comes alive again at night
in dreams of olden days that hastened by.
The time went quickly like swift birds in flight.
An old crow sits there now on limb up high
in yard where trees still stand so proud and tall.
I brush aside a tear, I will not cry.
Instead, I’ll help my memory recall
the sound of Mama’s voice when she would call.
Copyright 2013, Freeda Baker Nichols