Stone Walls

My father enclosed us 
with flat field stones
coughed up at early plow.
He began every Spring
to stack walls farther,
knelt near lawn’s edge or
porch by the house, hemmed
by phlox and hollyhocks.
Knelt after milking and field 
work, a mud-soaked survivor 
of April ice in work boots.
Streaks of white daylight shot 
between stones: tiny rooms
for wildflowers and nesting birds.
Placed with care, placed the way 
he gave rock-steady advice:
how an earth-bound life
of hard work holds like granite.
How space between humans, 
allows a search for self, some
form shaped by loved things
in dust-draped light. Spaces 
where he held us. Held me. 
How he lived. When he lived.
That’s what he left us--granite 
walls and the light between.

NANCY HUXTABLE MOHR

Nancy Huxtable Mohr is a member of the Community of Writers and a Bread Loaf Writers Conference participant. She has one book, The Well. Other work can be found in numerous journals and at www.nancyhuxtablemohr.com. She lives in California but still considers herself a farm girl from Upstate New York.