Saturday, September 26, 2009

A Sense of Place

grass stains   bees underfoot   salt on slugs
glug sun tea   sweating by gallons
hand-me-down bikes   broken chains   patched tubes
scraped knees   mecurichrome medals

dust settles on books while children
jump and dance on sticky asphalt
eager for the whoosh of heat meeting ice,
whiff of stale freezer
when the ding dong jeep stops to exchange
my sticky quarter for a Fudgesicle

sit down to roast beef falling apart
fresh baked rolls melting butter
rich brown gravy rivers down
quiet potatoes mashed and piled
boisterous dinner masculine conversation

mama bustles about serving in silence
slaps hands which reach too often
too soon for unclaimed leftovers
brushes up crumbs the dog can’t reach

later the washed jars we emptied of green beans and peaches
become glass cathedrals for faeries
we chase their lightning glow
the fire around which we jostle for place
warm our hands on slaps of laughter
the clammy air pulls down the sides of the day

watch the ants as they carry
a hundred times their weight
like I do the memory of family
now scattered and hands holding
the weight of a hundred other worlds
changing it for the better
one crumb at a time

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Yep, you all took me back to midwestern summer in the middle of my menopausal winter.