Situated in the middle, between the garden and the hayfield, stood our childhood home
where we grew together for a while, then apart, five different lives, all in the middle, where I call home.
To the right growing lazily, sun-browned grass in late summer is cut and wrapped into neatly, tight squares, and I, sun-browned, sit watching, growing lazily, where I call home.
To the left, for a farmer who planted, hoed and watered and sold his fare, we five sweat on the hottest of days for a trivial pence, recruited, not an option, to them it made sense, where I call home.
Long since still, though now none exists, so often I picture myself somewhere between that windswept seed and the fully sprouted plant and I’m stuck in the middle, where I call home.
Prompt: A ghazal. Couplets, each making its own complete statement. Both lines of the first couplet end with the same word or phrase and every last word of the remaining couplets having that same word.