In those weekends at Ocala,
On the farm where papa leaned life,
I found a cat with sunset eyes,
only for mama to shove it out the door
of the pale blue minivan before we headed home.
I found an orange tree that was never ripe,
and a pile of sand that resided close to manure.
I found an old chicken coop my father built
and a greenhouse, where before granddaddy was sick-
Before I was alive- he cultivated the greatest flowers
in the tri-county area.
I lost a pair of socks, there, on that farm, but found the sensation
of sweet country grass between my toes.
I found the taste of water never purified by chemicals:
tangy and bitter and fresh.
I found the sound of my father’s childhood;
of learning how to get by on almost nothing,
and I found pride in quiet papa, who could leave
Poverty with his head held high and find Prosperity.
I found the taste of goodbye-and it was an awful taste-
when the sun would set on horses grazing,
and papa would wait in the car while I found
the courage to hug the man,
who wheezed and faltered with every step,
who was the reason we came at all.