I Remember Poem

In August my dad lost his job

came home with his box in hand,

all his belongings stacked up.

A job could never define him,

he was more than a collection of items in a box.

In October we picked out our pumpkins

came home, gourds in hand

hay bales stacked up,

the smell of a campfire in the wind.

It felt calm for once

sitting, bumping up and down on a hayride.

the tractor crunching

leaves under the wheels

with a cool autumn breeze on my face.