Helen and Swede
Victoria A. Eagleson
The foggy hillside
hides the barren winterland
of brown grass stubble
and leafless trees.
Eyeing the small cottage
beind the aged fire station,
I can already smell
the culinary delight, Helen's sweet rolls.
Rolling onto the gravel driveway,
the car sounds the emergence of Ole Timber
who barks and snarls protectively
while wagging his tail as if a memory has returned.
Peering into the window,
I see the same old afghan,
granny squares thrown casually
on the back of the flowered couch.
And once again, as the door opens,
I feel the secure embrace
of the rotund Helen
with her round, red, smiling face.
not want to leave
the gasping-for-air bear hug;
for at that moment,
my complexity is reduced to ultimate simplicity.
Upon her release, I turn to
the lecherous grasp of dear Swede,
the husband, father, man of the house,
a stirring blend of God's love and Adam's fall.
The hearts within these simple stucco walls
are those of the" salt of the earth,"
telling it like it is
yet loving and giving beyond cynicism.
These hearts have known much pain and grief
and much hard work and loss,
but these hearts continue to share what little they have
with the weary travelers of life.
We travelers, who are only beginning
the long wilderness journey through life,
find a brief respite from the bitter elements
of lost Ioves, disappointments and fears.
For no wordly moment can compare
with the open arms waving as I depart,
knowing that the next time I wander by
Helen, Swede and the sweet rolls will be warm and waiting.
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