Learning to bake bread
On my hand-me-down board
With my hand-me-down pans;
Kneading while thinking
Of the hands before me, doing the same.
Pouring love into their labor.
Slicing apples for a pie.
Warm, inviting pie.
Served from a hand-me-down plate
That has circled an oval table
Many times over.
Where seated were farmers and threshers and hired men.
A hand-me-down bed
With headboard high;
Golden wood, skillfully carved.
Place my grandfather found rest
In a home acquired
Over one-hundred country years ago.
If hand-me-down walls could talk,
Their lathe and plaster cracking,
They would speak of the births
And of the deaths.
Even of the funerals,
That happened within.
They would tell of joy, of sorrow,
Of laughter, of tears.
A barn of virgin timber;
Long and tall.
Structure of strength.
A hand-me-down marveled at –
With its hand-hewn beams and high peaks.
Century-old home for livestock;
Nine decade source of livelihood.
A burden on the wallet to keep standing;
A burden on the heart to let fall.
Hand-me-down love –
For a hand-me-down farm.