The Farm

The Farm © by Trisha Sugarek Fields of mustard seed as far and beyond the eye the farm dogs return dusted in yellow The clapboard grey of the old farm house stands in testimony of generations of pea farmers, hunters, fishermen, and cooks Heady fragrance of a farm dinner immerses the senses as the screen door slaps open The matriarchal voice sings out ‘tea party!’ A call to supper And the city folk sit around a battered and scared wooden table laden with baked chicken, fried steak, mashed potatoes, green beans and corn that hung from the vine just minutes ago Her biscuits and corn bread are the stuff that dreams are made of Later they all sit on the warped porch steps and listen as the geese honk their way in to the fields and their nightly time of respite Bats fly across the moon, frogs call out their secrets, a loon wails its loneliness