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by Kynzi DePriest

 

it's a melody.

it welcomes you after a long day

     at work or school,

giving you comfort you need.

 

but that's too generic for me.

 

for me, it is a work of art. 

it's filled with Beatles and Cash

     and Presley

and a pile of records in the closet. 

 

it's the smell of coffee, black of course,

and the pink-orange view of the sunrise as you drive

     down a gravel road,

and the sound of the little pitter-patter

     of feet on Christmas morning.

 

it's the sway of the oak trees 

     as the wind rolls through the hills,

and the quiet of the waves of the lake

     at midnight.

 

it's a beautiful harmony of the cicadas

     in the leaves 

that have fallen in September,

and the laughter of children as they play in the yard. 

 

it is the memories of brunch after church,

and of football in the fields,

and of a little girl, too innocent to know

     any more. 

 

it is the storms that come 

     in the summer afternoons,

and the movies we watch because 

     we can't go outside. 

 

it's of grandma's fresh cookies and milk

     and sometimes pumpkin pie.

 

it is the mop of thin white hair

     twisted into rollers for the next

     Eastern Star meeting, 

and of Cinderella dresses and Penguin suits,

 

and it is that last glimpse of the

     fan swirling on the ceiling just before

     drifting into sleep...

 

because it is more than the comfort of a melody,

 

because that's too generic for me.