That Old Farmhouse – a poem

At harvest time, the
smell of wood smoke takes my hand
and leads me homeward
to that old farmhouse by
Highway No. 10

And I remember cold mornings
with my breath hanging, ghostlike
in the chill air, while
Mom stoked the wood stove
until it glowed faintly red

When my sister and I dressed
in the living room,
clothing draped across the back
of that wood stove, warming us
as we pulled them on

At harvest time, the
smell of wood smoke takes my hand,
and leads me homeward
to that old, cold farmhouse by
Highway No. 10

Copyright © J.S. White

2 Comments

  1. Donna White says:

    I remember those cold mornings as well. Nothing like getting warm by a wood stove. Warmest heat you can find.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. GretaGreentree says:

    Ahh, this takes me back. I think back to the old homeplace all the time. I may have moved twice since then, but that old place will always be “home”.

    Liked by 1 person

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