The Farm
After the long journey through the night
through the ink black of northern Wisconsin,
through the AM stations crackling polka tunes.
began the Minnesota mornings
of misty rivers and dewy fields,
sleepy cattle at peace in the meadows.
Tired, squished and impatient children
wanting release from the cramped station wagon
on our way to the Farm.
Our young and tired eyes
kept peeled for a glimpse of Paul Bunyon
or his equally elusive blue ox, Babe.
Past the town where they blasted rice and corn
out of a cannon to make breakfast cereal
on our way to the Farm.
Childhood vacations at Grandma and Grandpa’s.
Days and nights filled with nothing but
– Picking raspberries,
– Finding kittens in the grainery,
– Hide and seek in the arboretum
– Exploring the outbuildings and barn
– Finding bones in the farthest rock pile
– Swimming at the quarry
– Counting shooting stars
– Dancing in the northern lights
– Playing cards
– Figuring out if the electric fence was on
off.
Near, although several miles away.
where Herbie’s bar burned to the ground this year
generations of memories, now smoke.
Where the Church can seat a thousand,
and the population is three hundred, fifty-six.
Where cousins live
and family is buried.
On our way to the Farm