Coming home to visit my parents’ graves,
I enter the house where I was born.
My mother sits at a table, sewing,
her eyes a deepening blue.
My father comes in from the fields.
Until now I have never known
that intent young man,
that slender woman
who lean toward each other
and touch hands
and rise together to climb the stairs,
long vistas of the fields dissolving
as dusk puts down its roots.
— Jo McDougall, from Satisfied with Havoc
This poem is offered as part of our December theme: House & Home
T. S. Poetry
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