Strawberry Roan

.

On Sundays we’d drive

to the cemetery,

just me and Dad.

He’d talk softly

to his departed son

and arrange fresh flowers

on the grave.

Then standing tall,

he’d blow his nose

and tell me it was time

to put some miles on the car,

and we’d head east

for the country roads

where he’d point his corn cob pipe

at the tiny farms

and talk about Oklahoma,

then sing a chorus

of “The Strawberry Roan”.

Sometimes we’d pull over, and

he’d sniff the air and smile –

and then we’d turn around

and head for home.

.

.

(c) 1992, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d_yfmKMK4mo

 

 

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