The Whistle
By Lee Carlson

I hear strange sounds when I mow the lawn.
Above the engine roar,
Is that dad’s whistle I hear?

Twilight drops like a thin veil
Over chattering children.
Oh darn, the whistle …
Ordering us from
Neighborhood hiding places.
Homeward bound we straggle.

Light in the window. Warmth in the nook.
Family around the dining room table.
Coziness under a blanket.
Security in a prayer — and rest.

I hear strange sounds.
My Father’s whistle again —
Calling over din and clatter.
It’s time to go … Homeward bound!
No struggle.