By Jeff Reid
Raindrops tinkle on the tin roof
like fingers on the ivory keys
of Grandma’s old piano.
If you listen closely you can hear
a refrain from the gospel hymn,
“Go tell it on the mountain.”
The warm glow of the potbelly stove,
pregnant with poplar,
and the rhythm of the rain,
swallow me whole,
like Grandma’s feather bed.
Soon Grandpa will start planting seeds,
and the day will lose its sepia tone.
Scarecrows will stand vigilant
as the cornstalks grow true and strong.
Mason jars filled with chow chow
and bread and butter pickles
will line Grandma’s pantry shelves.
Men dressed in their finest bib overalls
and women in their mail order dresses
will meet for Sunday worship.
After church picnic tables draped
with red and white checkered tablecloths
will give us our daily bread.
Children will feast on wild strawberries
and chase fireflies into the night.
I will read a psalm and
rest in the fetal position.
Jeff Reid works as a freelance photographer and journalist at Smith Mountain Lake. Reid majored in English literature and creative writing at Randolph College (formerly Randolph-Macon Woman's College) and Boston University.
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