Return to Seldom Rest Farm

 by Margret Hoskins

The grandmother clock on the west wall

ticks the kitchen quiet.

The windmill halfway down to the ancient barn

creaks the night still.

I turn on the faucet where the pump used to be:

sound of Niagara Falls echo from the glass.

The moon slides out from under the clouds

streaking the linoleum gold.

A cricket chirping behind the pantry door

lets me know I am not alone,

conspires with gentle breathing from the back bedroom

to make a friend of this quiet.

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