Rocks in my head…
One of the many things about me that endears me to the Man is my collection of rocks that are scattered throughout the Farm. He enjoys gently chiding me about them, that there are too many and they fill up every flat space available. To the untrained eye, they may appear to be just rocks of all shapes and sizes, textures and colors. But to me, each stone represents a memory. I have some large, rounded pieces of lava from a beach in Hawaii, and I can still hear the sound of them being tumbled around by the force of the waves. I can close my eyes, and I am back on that beach with the Man, holding hands and feeling like kids.
There is this tree…
At the Farm, there is this tree…
Standing guard out in the yard…
It’s very old, with many scars…
“If it could talk”, we often say…
A sapling during the Civil War…
Deep, dark split runs up it’s side…
Fragile in the winter…
Strong and fruitful in the summer…
A constant for the Farm…
As dwellers come and go…
It gives us lessons on life…
Strength in adversity, knowing limits…
Standing firm as best you can…
And giving freely when you are able…
A life truly lived, and full of love…
There is this tree, and it is the Farm…
Well and bucket…
Well and bucket...
Me and the Man... 