Scrapbook #4

It was always hot as hell in that tin roof trailer so we’d set off in your little rusted Honda that had all our love and drive over the state line for cheap gas and dollar ice cream. It was nothing, but it felt like everything.

Pear Preserves

There are things,

Priceless things,

That we forget have worth.

We fail to slow down,

Breathe,

Be,

Savor.

I heard something today

Foreign yet familiar.

The popping of a sealing jar,

Sitting warm in the sun,

A product of stained fingers

On hands that start working

Before the sun wakes.

That kind of work,

It’s hard on the bones

But it’s easy on the soul.

The stove never stops boiling

And the pears never stop growing

But there’s laughter at the table.

There’s the retellin’ of that story,

The one where my brother lost his shoe,

Stuck in that creek mud

He was chasing birds.

Play was simpler.

Livin’ was work

But it was work that had love.

I might be up with the chickens

But I saw the sunrise.

Those days are fairy tales now

We tell our children of “back then”

Our soul never quite present

But stuck there in that memory

Of a time with more joy

Stronger faith

And truer words.

It’s as familiar as my skin

But from another time,

A time I’m trying to get back to

But can’t quite get.