An eight hour ride
to my father's childhood home.
Blazing heat, moist air,
No television, one radio with one station,
And the lonely only-me.
How I hated those trips to the boredom
when all I had to do was to read poetry all day,
to walk the gravel road in the heavy summer air,
to hear the crickets and bees and bob whites whistle.
Then to toss and turn as the frogs called each other
into the night filled with stars.
I am a mother now
and wish that I could bring my children
back to my uncle's farm
and sit in the quiet summer days
fishing in his pond.
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