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Country Home in Autumn
by Michael Escoubas

I leave the car by the gate
to recall again the white-rock path
I walked as a boy:
I still love the white dust on my shoes,
the ancient maple's flaming leaves,
its bark brittle with age.
A gaggle of geese compete
for space as I slow-walk the lane.
The house with its weathered boards,
seems to grow arms, windows glow
in the burn of autumn light.
In memorized movements,
Mom and Dad get breakfast on,
sit at table planning the day's work.
I'm home from too long away.
I feel the land, the house, the burn
of leaves, the weathered boards.
As I step onto the porch, the door opens,
arms of love enfold me.

 

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