My dad sitting at our kitchen table,
sipping his strong coffee, cream
spilling over the sides of his cup,
pooling in his saucer as he tells
his tales, homespun, far-fetched

and my sister, taking photos of
babies, wearing caps, sniffing
Christmas trees like flowers
while cousins and kinfolk talk
out on the front porch

and nieces and nephews
chat and chase each other,
jump on trampolines, and melt
plastic car parts together.

Momma hanging laundry
on a barbed wire fence
while she sings Conway,
her face forever young,
her hair eternally black.

There are husbands and in-laws,
guitar strumming and humming,
keeping beat to the rhytmn of
our lives, lines and verses

that swirl and spin the years
into jumbled pieces of vibrant
colors, slighty out of order,
yet always the same.