The Day I Left Home
my father taught me names of weeds
the mock morning glory of the field whose roots survive the harshest droughts
the airbrushed purple flowers of the hearts-ease that bloom anywhere
because it can adapt
the willow-like leaves and yellow flowers of the evening primrose whose seeds last in the soil for seventy years
but it’s burdock I sought that morning
forming prickly spheres into bracelets and necklaces
they pierced my fingers as I unhooked the interwoven burrs of nature’s jewelry
and formed them into a fairy house that I left on a whitewashed windowsill where sun will dry dew and splinters will form
Half-Life
When young, I sang the songs of my people. Hymns etched in my mind. Our voices – the only instruments.
We sang at… Sunday church services youth Singings family reunions
We sang while… walking the fields doing chores rocking babies
When two or more were gathered… we sang.
I sang soprano, alto, tenor, and falsetto. I sang in the Ladies’ Chorus. I sang in quartets.
Now my hair has turned gray my eyes a paler blue and as I drive the gravel roads of home, the radio plays Leaning On the Everlasting Arms. I struggle to find that sweet spot of harmony, but my voice has lost its way.
Joyce Enzor Maust hails from the land of moss-covered boulders, mountain laurel, and state forests. Family, faith, and freedom to roam were a way of life on her parent’s dairy farm. She now resides in Dover, DE. With degrees in English and Physics, the daughter of a Conservative Mennonite bishop, mother to exceptional sons, and a wife to a walking history encyclopedia – she enjoys reading, discussing, and writing about almost any subject. Her works have been published in Broadkill Review and Gargoyle.