It was always early summer
when I visited the farm.
I ate cherries endlessly,
spitting their pits into Grandma’s
furrowed rich garden soil.
The swing creaked under a burgeoning bacchanal
of arbored green grapes
each bunch graced with tendrils of cherubic curls.
My hands were blood red raspberries
Never could resist them
No matter what grandpa said.
Garden paths heady
with rose, lilac and mystery scents
led through chickens
that scattered like mercury
on their way to the hay and manure of the barn…
thick clouds of white wool
billowed away from Grandpa’s sheep shears.
I was nine and I was thirsty
I grabbed the blue screen door
leapt into the kitchen
and there she was…
darted behind the cold, white fridge
Why was she hiding
I couldn’t understand it…
Now I can
squinting at these memories
through my blue readers
But that glimpse gave me spring
And I swoon at the scent of my Freesias
that nod, “Botticelli-beautiful”
as I pass…
© Vicki Gunter, spring, 2004
Dedicated to Addie Smets, my grandma,
and Evangel King for the creative watershed.