Seasons

Venerable cedar looms overheadI perch on the creaking porch rail.Wind whistles through an abundance of trees, jumbles my ponytail.Eight unique pines grow in a lineto trim the old house on the east.Dwarfed and twisted, They’ve been toppedFor family Christmas trees.Nine walnut trees stand noble and proudshading an island of green.Honored protectors, silent spectators Of all our family has been.They saw you and I exchange our ringsAs we promised forever together.And now watch our kids hunt Easter eggs, and jump sprinklers in hot weather.Apples, loquats, a pear and a plum,

Summers bountiful harvest to feast.

By some means, a single prune tree remains

A hint of an orchard deceased.

Great Grandpa’s ghost lives beneath the gnarled oaks

That define the north property line.

There in the shade, he sits rolling his smoke,

Watching his family through time.

Grandpa Combs still walks through rows

Of a prune orchard long gone.

He props up limbs bearing heavy fruit

As his spirit wanders along.

The fifth generation has never seen The prune trees in their glory.

But the fourth generation remembers

And tries to tell the story

Of how it was before

The third generation chose

To replace the profitless prunes,

And planted grapes in rows.

We prune and tend and tie the vines,

Mend wire and replace the stakes,

Protect young buds from frost,

In the autumn, harvest grapes.

Pinot, Gewürz, and Cabernet,

Produce award winning wines.

Yet for all the endless work it takes,

The farmer makes not a dime.

The maple tree cools the patio. Its leaves, a dress of lace,Turn blazing orange in autumnTo decorate our days.Nana raised her children here,And watched her grandchildren grow.Briefly she greeted her great grand kidsWith the kindest smile I’ve known.I can still see Dad on the tractor.Mowing, discing, entertaining the kids.The same grand kids who soon will doThe tasks that once was his.I think of them quite often,Especially when I’m here.It gives my soul great comfortTo feel their spirits near.When I approach my autumn

And watch my grandchildren play,

I’ll be content to visit here

Until my dying day.

This oasis to the spirit

We call the family ranch,

Is where I want to live

When my time on earth has passed.