Chickens

I was probably four
and loved to spend weekends with Gramma Barnes
in the rambling, white farmhouse on Lake Road.

It may have been 1958
but the year didn't matter because I couldn't write
and didn't know my numbers.

The pear tree in late summer was a haven
for yellow-jackets hovering over
sunwrinkled pears fallen on the ground.
I can still smell sweet fruit, hear the menace
of yellow-jacket buzzing.

Mud pies baked in the hot metal tube
that housed the Oregon Journal on a daily basis.

Chickens scratched in the yard each morning
right after Gramma tossed them their breakfast;
grain, or corn, something that wasn't oatmeal.

At four, I didn't much care what chickens ate.
I kept my distance.
They kept theirs.

Today I drive past memories on Lake Road.
The farmhouse is gone.
No chickens.
Gramma Barnes is resting,
in the Pioneer Cemetery
two miles away.

As the oldest child in a family that eventually included six children, weekend trips to my great grandmother's house were a welcome retreat.
Written August 27th, 2005

Originally posted to a poetry website that involved writing reviews and earning points.