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.