where the writers are
Bluets

I remember bluets.
A faded white house and a leaning old barn,
Quiet cherished days on a small country farm,
A green eyed child racing the clock,
And long summer walks around a dirt road block,
With two old souls growing older still,
Facing life, with courage, against their will,
And out in the back, little pet graves,
A testimony mark, of the love that was saved.
A wound that has healed, but leaves a scar,
Traveling miles, yet, not so far,
And Bluets,
I remember bluets.