Grandpa Mogk's farm meant family.
It was Damon's silhouette running,
stick-sword in hand,
across a mile of hay bales;
Devin's giddy backstroke
through a pool of golden grain;
Steven, Ryan, and Daegan
climbing a towering pyramid of hay,
fists pumping in triumph,
It was octogenarians gathered,
swapping stories on the lawn;
children hop-skip-galloping around them
or bouncing along on Buttercup's back,
dancing into their own memories.
Rustling stalks of corn stretched out,
an emerald lake rocking with
the rhythm of the wind,
and horses whinnying a welcome
upon your approach.
Grandpa Mogk's farm was Frisbees flying
as we ran, laughed, tackled each other
to snatch them from the air,
a sparkling audience of bobbing kites high above us.
Sunshine warming our faces,
breeze across our shoulders offering comfort,
clouds lazy-sailing across a blue-blue sky.
It was Welcome! and Uff da! and Nice ta meetcha!
A place where the word "stranger"
was defined by the possibility of new friendships.
It was chocolate raining on strawberries and pretzels,
stuffing and turkey and warm wheat rolls,
soft lemon cake melting on your tongue.
Fireflies twinkling like Christmas,
the boom and the bang of pyrotechnics,
tiny shadows bounding through the dark,
calling, "Ghost in the graveyard!"
But most of all,
Grandpa Mogk's farm was laughter.