I walk along the wagon trail,
Funny how it will still last,
Oh, the memories now flood,
Flash visions of life in years past.

Two small girls skipping,
I see in my mind's eyes,
Holding hands and laughing,
Long hair in the wind flies.

Happy time as we gathered,
From the garden close at hand,
Different vegetables grown fresh,
Daddy always tended the land.

The smell of smoke from the chimney,
Wafted along with the wind by our noses,
An occasional aroma of ham and biscuits,
Tickled us down to our little toes.

I climbed many of the trees around the house,
Agile and daring; not knowing fear,
Sister always cautious and pleading with me,
In spite of the rebel inside she always stood near.

Picking wild flowers that dotted the hillside,
Carefully placing them in a vase,
Thrilled at the surprise Mother would show,
And the gentle smile upon her face.

Mountains tall and regal seemed to call out,
Begging for a day set aside for us to climb,
Early rise from bed knowing I'd be late,
Several hours spent; always worth the time.

Wading in the little brook that flowed,
Right behind and past the old barn,
We'd take a break, sit on the bank,
And spin many an unbelievable yarn,

Many happy times were spent,
In this house and the surrounding land,
Deep inside I find a child still longs,
To stop and scribble in the sand.

I miss wash tub baths and the wood stove,
Kerosene lamps, and tin heaters,
Homemade quilts and feather stuffing,
Bull frog legs and busy beavers.

Chopping cotton and pulling weeds,
Stacking peanuts and sawing wood,
Happy times and calloused hands,
Filled with dreams of "I wish I could".

Memory drifts back to the parents,
That has entered Heaven's Gates,
I remember the nights of prayer,
Needs took priority, chores could wait.

Tears gather and trickle down,
Blurring the vision from clear view,
For just a moment I thought I saw,
All of the family grouped anew.

I walk again upon the old wagon trail,
A changed heart since memories came,
Flooding my heart with happy thoughts,
This will again be my home I proclaim.

I stop by the weathered stump,
Where Daddy knelt to pray,
I paused and bent down too,
I met my Lord again that day.

That ole stump has a power,
It draws me there each day,
It is now where I often go,
All of my cares to allay.

Gayle Davisİ
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