Biographical Poetry posted February 12, 2021

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Family farm land.

More than dirt.

by John bailey

I was up this morning with the sun.
I'have seen the sun now two days in a row.
I got up in a hurry and headed out the door.
To look for some familiar places to make
some stops, and see what I could find.
I saw a lot of places, and a lot of faces,
but like mine, everyone has changed
our faces are not the same.
Before too long, I was drawn back to that
rural farm, that I once called home.
The land has not changed, the fields
are plowed flat and clean, ready for
planting early spring.
These fields my Granddaddy once plowed
with a mule, I remember well.
I pulled off the pavement, on to a
dirt drive, that led me to the house,
now covered with growth.
I got out just to look around,
in no time at all, my hand was in the dirt,
just to touch and smell, this piece of land
that was the home of my birth.
This piece of land that bares my name,
the dirt is still here everything else has changed.
I can stand and look now, and take it all in,
once more I am ten again.
This was my home where I grew up,
I;ts not mine anymore, all the old homes
are almost gone, the new ones are all brick.
All my cousins still live here, and work the land.
My home is a memory,
that I visit now and then.
Those who have been here all their life,
they can't taste the dirt, to them, it just works.
To me, it's more than that, it's memories
that I hold, this handful of dirt.
"I will always come back
the child has never left".

This farm that I visit now and then,holds so many memories,I have always said it is the
dirt that got into my soul, my Granddaddy as he plowed the field, would grab a handful of
dirt and smell it, with me right behind I would do the same, so this dirt became a part of me.
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