When I was young I dreamt of this place,
of sweet evenings by the fire
the father of our sons stoking the wood
cracking under blue flames
while I wrap them in hand-sewn quilts
covering them in folds of generations
who knew simple love distilled
from the complexity of motherhood.
We grow older together like maples
wearing new foliage each season.
Yet we remain a refuge for the birds
who build their nests in spring
and take leave each winter
into the foreshortened sky
only to return.
Read more of my poetry at www.treasureoftradition.com