The Mending Pile

A basket sits in memory,

It held:  needles, buttons, thread,

a tomato pincushion,

(you know the kind.)

And the good scissors

with the empty orange eyes-

I was not to touch.





My father took this picture and sent it to me. This is the backyard  I grew up in,  where I  chased chickens, rode horses, trained puppies, played, camped, fought, grew,  was proposed to, held our wedding reception, and  where my children now play and roam. This backyard is always with me. It’s beauty bittersweet, ever changing but lasting in my mind. When I think of home this is what I see: