Nine little hemlock trees four feet high
Beside my casement window waving at the sky.
Back of them the driveway, the lawn and stately pines, --
Whose andante swinging rhythm, innuendo inclines,
Parked cars look like a garden in blue, white, green and red, --
They slumber in hot sunshine as if theyw ere in bed.
An engine reaves fortissimo shattering their sleep.
They speed away at 60 an appointment for to keep.
Wedgemere?s back door entrance has trucks parked at its door, --
The engines spray their gasoline in my window with a ROAR
They bake my bread, can my food, and cleanse my sheets pure white, -
So I sleep so very peacefully with everything all right.
My little room is private, I like its quiet way, --
With nearly ninety years served up, I'm lucky I would say
How come that Wedgemere's acres are as green as Ireland's shore?
For the ocean is not crashing at our solid oaken door?
But the clouds above our wondering heads are gray and full of rain
So cleanliness is now the word for Wegemere's green terrain.
Every dandelion shines like gold and 'shamrock' clover, too, --
The windows are like drums to tap a tune for me and you.
We better build a mighty ark to float us lest we drown.
As insurance for the people of dear ole Tauntontown.
Poem written by Avis Atwood Sturtevant while she was living at the Wedgemere nursing home, 146 Dean Street, Taunton, Massachusetts.