Arts & Letters
The anemic winter sun has drawn a ragged gray blanket
about his stooping shoulders and gone early to bed.
Frost shriveled garden greenery cowers limply against
the skeletel corn.
Shades of night sidle slyly across the field.
There's a smell of rain in the air.
But I am ready. Waiting. Fresh baked bread.
A snapping fire. A gloom dispelling glow of light.
The bright orange bus burns a hole in the drear horison,
flashing the good news of children coming.
Skipping footsteps, cheery chatter, banging doors.
Happy reprieve from another day at school.
"Hi, Mom! I'm home. Um-m-m. Can I have some bread?
I'm starving! I love you."
My heart rejoices in their simple acceptance of my
Today the bus drove by. It will not stop here again.
Now my children bake the bread, light the fire,
Kiss the bruises, absorb the love.
Eight of them once filled our home, sharing our bread
and love with their friends.
Still, I am ready, waiting. When the bread comes out of the oven,
filling the house with its "welcome home!" fragrance,
I watch the road for the children, listen for their laughter.
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