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 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
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
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.