Westward Ho

Farm land as far as you could see

bending west to the river

Summer was very hot this year, 1869 in Ohio

30 acres filled with corn and wheat.

Feeling blessed, but for our poor Father.

Came back to us late in 65, not the same

since the war.

Saw and did much to preserve our Union.

His newest friend a brown jug.

The three of us already orphans.

Hot July morning, Father passed out in bed.

Today it is different, for he does not move.

His battles over, the peace he sought was at hand.

Resting next to Mother wrapped in a clean sheet.

A prayer and then a spade of dirt.

Walking back from her beautiful hill.

Calling Ned to me ....

The farm is yours, walking into Father's room.

Unwrapping his Navy Colt, my knapsack at the door.

Westward Ho,

not looking back.