The road to my childhood was overgrown
with vines and trees long forgotten by man.
The rock chimney determined to stand
had painful memories carved in stone.
A twinge of shame for lost seeds left unsown.
The rutty trail with pebbles in dark sand,
like memory of bronzed feet on hot bare land.
In stillness my sad heart returned to home.
A yellow rose beside a crumbling wall
had sneaked through cracks and budded out to bloom.
The roots looked tired. They seemed to want to fall.
The old oak tree with swing beneath our room
stood mute to listen for the master's call.
My children must see this! They must, and soon.
Bertha Warren Johnson