It’s still there –
your house in front of the field
by the barn.
Winds under my bed blow familiar voices
into my ears sometimes
waking me at midnight.
Saved letters hold your old school penmanship
ornate and beautiful.
But your hand is gone
and no longer writes
shucks peas,
cans tomatoes,
plants daffodils and poppies
or plays piano.
I was safe when I was with you
and, now, I have made you a home in my heart
where I will hold you forever.
©photo and poem by carole fults
Inside-out Art and Writing 