The lady of the house stitches on patchwork quilt,
Her counter is littered with glass jelly jars, bottles of vinegar,
And wooden handled knives.
She has pickled peaches, watermelon pickles, and blackberry jam
In her cozy kitchen,
The sunlight glows against her churn in the corner,
A wood stove takes away the autumn chill,
A little baby sleeps by her side in a basket,
Yards of yarn in forty different colors are rolled
And stored in the copper trunk,
The key to it hangs around her neck,
A bottle tree sits outside the side window
Blue and green glass catch spirits as the cabin
Is breathing in the country air,
River waters babble and echo
As dead dried leaves, reach the packed dirt,
Ribbon grass grows among the headstones,
White caterpillars collect on their cool surfaces,
Many thistles rustle in the unsettling breezes.
A mourning dove stirs in its nest,
Sobbing voices carry through the deep woods,
Her lace curtains stir with the draft
Awakening her from a ghostly reverie.
–J. E. Cook ©2015