The following poems are some of my favorites from my grandmother's book, Spend Your Heart, published in 1950, three years before I was born.

The Lonely Widow Reed

She strains the milk, then sets the crocks away,
  Straightens the braided rugs upon the floor,
The farmwork all is finished for the day.
  She turns the latch upon the kitchen door
And takes a last look all around, then goes
  with lighted lamp in hand to the front room;
Sits down and reads awhile; begins to doze;
  So then she weaves a bit upon her loom.
The kitchen clock strikes nine, time to retire;
  She yawns, then smooths the cushion on her chair,
She turns the stove draft, looks about the fire
  And lamp in hand she climbs the lonely stair.
The young folks went across the crick to Thiems,
  She goes to bed alone...with long lost dreams.



Evening on Brush Crick Farm

Sam comes in from the barn, pulls off his shoes,
Then takes the almanac, from off the hook,
Props his feet in the oven, spits and chews
While Beck, his wife reads from a story book.
Sam says the cow will come fresh in two weeks,
And thinks the sow will farrow any day;
But Becky, lost in fiction: never speaks,
Sam says, we are most out of clover hay.

He spits and chews, but never turns his head,
Beck reads straight on and never bats an eye,
He thinks it's about time to get to bed
And then, he eats two cuts of apple pie.
Beck reads and dreams of lover's ardent ways,
But it takes apple pie to end Sam's days.



Country Auction

Crowds huddled in the bitter cold
On ground frozen hard as rock,
Some strange woman held the key
To Matildy's cherry clock...
John hadn't thought how it would be
To see their bed and rocker go:
Just as they carried out the couch
And high-chair...it began to snow,
Weather was pretty dog-gone rough
(Folks didn't seem to mind it though.)

The vase that Tildy liked the best
With gold-leafed tendrils trailin' down,
Sold to the man who bought the chest,
He bought her shawl, too...the dark brown
Fringed one and her pewter lamp.
A neighbor woman bought the soap
That Tildy made this fall and the
Old quilt frame upstairs, John said, "I hope
the team of mules will bring a lot
(I hate to see them old mules go)
They work hard...them mules, when it's hot."



The Time has Come

"The work will never be all done," she said,
  "When I'll have time to dream or write a bit,
The house quite clean and spotless, no smudged hands,
  No sticky mouths to wash...and time to set.
No empty jars to fill, preserves to place
  Upon the swinging shelf...no pies to make
For Sunday, and no smell of fresh baked bread,
  No demands like, Mom, make blackberry cake."

*   *   *   

The time has come, she sits beside the fire
  And looks into its flickering blue flames
And meditates but seemingly without
  Desire to write her dreams; nor mentions names
Of those who leaned on her so long, so long.
  It seems that when they married and had gone
They took with them, her hopes...her dreams...her song.



On Windy Corner Farm

Sharp winds whistle
Over the hills,
Snow's sifting, drifting,
On barn sills,
Gray smoke rolls
From chimney stacks,
Milk cows shiver
With hunched up backs,
Their thick fur coats
Look like plush...
After milking,
It's an eager rush
To the house
With the foaming pail...
While dad throws grain out
For the quail.
Backlogs flame
Full waist high,
Snowflakes cart wheel
From gray sky.
Pork chops frying,
Biscuits hot,
Green beans steaming
In the pot,
Sweet potatoes
And pumpkin pie.
Who wants to live in town?
Not I.