Steps and Stories

Three cement steps
Led from the dirty dusty yard
Across a foot-worn, uneven
Planked front porch.

Steps and stories
Are what my boyhood memories
are made of.

Five hand-hewn
Creaky steps to the basement,
Always dark and damp.
It was filled with spiders,
A big boiler furnace,
Neat stacks of axe-split wood,
Battalions of Ball Mason jars,
And my daddy's workshop.

One uneven step up
from the front porch
led through the oak front door
Into our small,
dimly lit living room.
We would rest
in the evening,
reading by kerosene lamp
after long summer days
on the farm.

All too soon,
Sleepy headed boys and girls,
Mom and dad too,
Would trudge up the wide staircase
To bedrooms, quietly conversing
And succumbing to sleep.

Today, in a new home
With polished staircase,
Who's boards never creak
Or Complain,
I remember steps and old stories.
I miss that place.