Her face looked like some of the fossils I found in the fields

Her hands ingrained with dirt, never to by lily-white.

Our house, not elaborate by any means, was still a haven of love,

The sweat of our family saturated each piece of wood;

It leaked, it was hopelessly hot,

but it was ours and Momma always reminded us of that.  

The taste of boysenberry pie in the air

Safe from the looming clouds of coal

The innocent days of shucking corn while chewing on hay seem so out of reach now - but as an eternity then.

We never knew that we were different or poor, Momma made sure of that

She was never too tired to mend a shirt, or kiss a muddy brow

Though as I look back now, I wonder who took care of Momma?

When I was younger I would daydream about this house,

With it’s worn wood siding and pummeled roof, would my children know it as their home?  Would the gentle summer breeze kiss my children’s cheeks, or the sun shower them bronze?

The home is long since gone; a factory in its place