Perhaps last nights summer storm rekindled youthful memories of a simpler time on our prairie farm. When grandma’s cotton apron meant wholesome family meals.
My Grandma’s old farmyard stove,
Decorated with pitted strips of chrome.
Fueled by wood from the apple grove
That flavored our family’s home.
That old cast iron range
Moved from house to porch.
Tied with the seasons change
And temperatures that would scorch.
For a constant fire the tinder box
Was everyone’s chore to keep filled.
Splitting wood dragged home by ox
That was too small to be milled.
Those 19th century recipes
Of simple German fare
Fueled our family legacies
With bratwurst, kraut and beer.
When the wind would howl and hover
And the frost snuck in long ago
We’d wrap ourselves in patchwork covers
And watch the red embers glow.
– Clarence Holm
I must admit that there is a general aversion to rhyming poems, in part because it seems the poets are forcing the sentence to get to the word that rhymes, thus lacking the self-expression that I seek in a poem. But actually I didn’t even notice until half way through that this was a rhyming poem. The expression seems to flow as if it could flow no other way. Great work.