Yolanda
Photo of Yolanda by Brett Hochmuth
Born and raised upon this farm
Her house adored, blue shingled charm.
She shares her humble living space
With strangers from a foreign place.
Our spoken tongue, it isn't shared
Small words and phrases here or there.
But hugs and laughs, her gentle smile
We sense her kindness from a mile.
Her simple life, passed down with pride
The farm, the cows, the mountainside.
Her son brings us to rugged trails
We humbly follow as he unveils
The nightly task, to round the sheep
Their bleats a song on hillside steep.
Our urban legs, they tense and quake
To reach the top, our bodies ache.
The top, a view none can afford
Volcanic giants above the fjord.
The mist, the sea, an ibis cry
Too lovely for the human eye.
Below we reach a feast of fish
With care she's placed in every dish.
She points to photos throughout the years
Laughter shared, along with tears.
One thing that I know for sure
This life of hers is bright and pure.
A quiet farm, with freedom from
Those pesky screens which make us numb.
I often think with honesty
Of that small house above the sea.
The dogs, the sheep, the fuschia tree
Who do you envy, her or me?
