A Poem About Home: This Place ✨

:This place:

Picture perfect, idyllic if you will. Like an old time painting.

The sound of the birds, the way the wind whips through the pines. The smell, its the kind of place that’s smelled the same for decades.

It’s the way the house creaks as it settles, the noise in the silence.

It’s the front porch, the very place I smoked my first cigar, the sweet taste of the smoke and a smell that will forever be embedded in me.

It’s the crips mornings coffee in hand listening to the earth, the dog in the distance, the horses steps down in the pasture.

It’s the sun shining through the windows, warm and welcoming.

It’s the quiet evenings so still yet so loud.

It’s the memories the laughs that will be heard for generations to come. Those moments that will live on long after we are all gone.

It’s the treehouse up on the hill nestled snugly in the overgrown pines. The benches around the fire pit, all hand made, the buoy from and Alaskan fishing boat that hangs from a tree, brought home to bring a smile to children’s faces.

It’s long cold winters, snow piled up. And long hot summer spent picking weeds and rocks out of the pasture.

It’s the smell of paps aftershave long after he’s been gone. The smell of dinners and sweet treats.

The projects started and never finished.

The deer in the yard and moose in the pasture.

The ghosts of the past, those who walked this land long before their stories, good bad and ugly.

The things pap saw that we couldn’t wrap our minds around. I’ve heard demetia can do that to a person, who was he truly seeing?

It’s snow in April, and 100o in July.

I wouldn’t trade this place for the world for it holds my child like heart, in its trees valleys and the beauty of the sky above.

-Cassidy Jane Holliday sometime between 2021-2022