In spring, irises bloom purple,
and a covey of speckled quails
resides next to an old log house
inside a fence of weathered rails.
A father built the bungalow
with logs he cut from woods nearby.
He built a cradle, too, of oak–
a mother sang a lullaby.
When irises bloom, I visit
the cottage by an old oak tree.
A calm and tender morning breeze
reaches out and touches me.
A cradle rocks — is it the wind?
Who is humming that sweet refrain?
Is it my mother’s gentle voice
singing me to sleep again?
© Freeda Baker Nichols