Poetic Bloomings Old

 Old Stomping Grounds

Ten days ago, we visited
the place where we grew up
in Western Pennsylvania.
The house is no longer there.
My youngest sister, now owner,
had it demolished years ago,
when bad renters destroyed it.

Now, from California,
she has a local man mow it every summer.
The three acres now look like a park.
Charlie, the huge oak tree, still stands.
The towering pines that line,
where once was the driveway,
had grown up as tall as Charlie.

I remember when my parents
were taller than the pines.
When I think of the country place
where we grew up,
their hard work, their love
in caring for their five daughters,
to me, they’re still taller than the pines.