~ The Centenarian ~

Pouring my tea, and watching it steep,
My half opened eyes, are still half asleep.
Sun shining through, my old kitchen shade,
On white antique doilies, I hand laced crocheted.

Blue pond surrounded, in emeralds and jades,
A tree swing still hanging, still waiting to play.
Dawn’s rooster crowing, get up, rise and shine.
A quiet old farm and old me... left behind.

Whispering wheat fields waving, saying, "hello" back to me,
Oh, how I miss soft rustling sounds, in fields of flaxen sea.
A hayride on a full moon, county fairs, blue ribbon jams,
Stored in cellars cool dark earth, preserved for winter’s demand.

Newly baled hay, blowing in on a breeze,
Farm raised smoked bacon, fried eggs in grease,
Butter beans, biscuits, dumplings with stew.
A wild berry pudding, my fresh steaming brew.

Blessed are memories, I keep in review,
The last of all I’ll ever know, becoming all I knew.
I’m a Centenarian, in twilight years, thought few…
At one hundred plus five, I’m still here…I’m alive,
And my passage is long overdue…

COPYRIGHT©2004 BONNIE TORRENTE