The train will soon stop when it reaches my station, I'm going home... Once a small town, it has grown to be a place of concrete and taller buildings. No longer does it fit like my old highschool sweatshirt tucked away in an attic trunk Morning sun filters through boughs, soon devoid of varied colored leaves, Broken stalks of corn stand bundled in fields, and familiar stone fences announce I'm almost there. This visit will be my last and so many memories are going through my mind, like scenery that's passing my window. I see our family huddled around our fireplace on cold winter nights, flames casting shadows, and weaving magic spells of warmth and love. I remember Sunday chimes echoing through crisp morning air to call us to church. The chimes will play again tomorrow, but It won't be Sunday. They will sound a mournful tune for a life well spent, that went on to better things. I wipe tears from my eyes remembering us all, and squaring my shoulders, I thank God for each memory now recalled. -- Judith Anne Labriola
If you like my web page, please sign my Guest Book!: |
Return to Labriola Poetry Index: Return To Front Page: |