Sunday, October 6, 2013

Prairie Song (Poem 188)

Slowly, slowly grew the pumpkin
Bitter blew the wind
Upon the air the tang of woodsmoke
On the trees the leaves had thinned
Bitter blew the wind

Longer, now, until the morning
Shorter, now, the days
The evenings passed with books and knitting
Warm before the crackling blaze
Shorter, now, the days

Piled high with quilts and blankets
Tucked into our beds
A lullaby from father's fiddle
Mother's kiss upon our heads
Tucked into our beds

Safe and snug within our cabin
Tucked into our beds

In gratitude to Laura Ingalls Wilder for a lifetime of happy reading, nostalgic dreaming, and comforting (if vicarious) memories.

(c) 2013, by Hannah Six