Hand Me Downs
My husband was a small town Indiana boy
Who heard the lonely whistle of the train
Just down the street and watched the glowworms
Dance above the seas of cornfields lapping
At his door. The eldest son, at the age of twelve
He drove a tractor on his uncle’s farm.
In the village school his father was the principal.
His mother put small stitches into quilts
And watered African violets with her tears.
Chickens, bees and gardens fed them for the year
Along with fallen fruit and Uncle Paul’s
Pork and goat milk. Nothing went to waste.
So when a research scientist, he built a woodland
House, cleared trails and planted raised-bed
Gardens fertilized by red worm-generated compost.
Gardens and chickens were carried on by his son
An engineer who felt the family heritage was worth
Preserving and perhaps even passing on.
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