Of home,
Of the Acadian summer morning,
These:

The minute movement of the shadow on the porch,
The green hush of growing cotton,
The horizon-level simmer of illusion in the heat,
The thick luxury of china-ball shade,
The cool damp of earth in the shade,
The large walking rhythm of a horse's rump,
The chainy sound of harness swinging,
The exuberance of a pastured colt's running,
The cheery sound of a horse's neighing.

And these:
The land nearby, strong, a solace,
The houses across the grasslots, cool inside,
The close sound of footsteps inside houses,
The crusty smell of bread in mothers' kitchens,
The falseness of a voice in the sun,
The unreality of an object in the sun,
The loose comfort of clothes worn in the country,
The abandon of unlaced shoes.

These are of home,
Of Acadia.

---Jim Bolner, Sr.;
August 7, 1957