Made during the depression
A crooked tree branch
And faded corn straw
Flecked with old wax
A mouse made its home
In its interior once
It whacked both
Grandpa and dad repeatedly
Swept out the kitchen
Used to shoo off
Bunnies and crows
Out of the victory garden
My brothers and me
Used it as a horse
My sisters swept
Out a fairy ring
With it in hand
As grandma crackled
Old ancient broom
Carried from house to house
Now it is mine
An eyesore my wife says
But it is grandma's
And it still flies.
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4 comments:
Hi Morgan,
I've enjoyed reading your poem.
Family treasures can be unique, can't they? I have an old yellow glass pedestal square cut glass "bowl" that my Mom has had for years. I thought it was something really special. One day I asked her where she got it and she told me they found it under a friend's front porch when she was a teenager! At least Grandma's broom was useful.
Congratulations for 8 days of posting!
I could really see that old broom working. Love it, especially the last line. Can't part with one that still flies - ha!
Stopping by from the UBC.
This poem paints a vivid picture of your grandmother's broom and your grandmother. Wonderful!
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