John Prosper

There is a place in heartland,

Where tender youth years spent,

Out in idyllic countryside,

Far from small town lights’ glint.

Where gazing up on cloudless nights,

Through air, fragrant of hay,

Stars rain and make an awesome sight,

And shower the Milky Way….

South town off old Two-Forty,

And east of Thompson Lane,

Then west a mile across the creek,

Through rows of crops, atop the peak

The farmhouse stood where family met,

There stands a weathered smokehouse yet;

Root cellar, coal shed, hand-pump well,

An ivy-covered trellis bell

From north tick hollar it would fetch us

Back from scouting rare boy-britches.    

Sowing, reaping, 4-H showings,

Livestock tending, State Fair goings,

Chores aplenty dusk till dawn,

Yet time enough for fishing pond;

Sundays gathered, prayers for rain

With hopes our labor’s not in vain.

It seems a mundane rural life,

But far removed from city strife,

Still not a better life’s been found

Than that prospered on heartland ground.