Everyday Ago Poem by Linda Marie Van Tassell

I remember clothes on the line,
sun-dried linens and windblown sheets,
sweet country air scented with pine.
The folded years of life repeats.

Raindrops on rooftops made of tin,
bare skin sinking into the earth.
Life was just so much simpler then,
the smallest things of greatest worth.

Picking green beans and shucking corn,
nodding rockers on the front porch,
the rooster's crow the early morn
beneath the flame of day's bright torch.

Castle Crawford cast iron stove
whose heat would drive you out the house,
paperback books - my treasure trove.
They were the field, and I the mouse.

Smell of wild onions freshly mowed,
Folgers perking in a glass top,
dust blowing off that old dirt road,
on either side the yellow crop.

The smell of rain after the storm,
the cool taste of a crystal stream,
open windows when days were warm,
sheer curtains blowing in my dream.

Tall, tall windows and hardwood floors,
open rafters of attic finds,
hand-carved mantels and stained-glass doors,
these are the haunts of older minds.

I find joy in reminiscing,
of making angels in the snow.
The days of old have gone missing,
but they were everyday ago.