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| September, 2013 |
Playing in the grass
always takes me
back to the farm.
Croquet hoops set up ~
targets for our deadly aim for
wooden balls hit with mallets
striped with green or red.
Taking an old pink quilt
to the tall grass between
stunted trees to read while
the sun dappled the pages.
Just walking house to barn,
or the garden or out to the
dugout. Not the grass of
parks groomed and green.
Tough, spiky grass that grew
despite the dry and the heat of
summer ~ determined to be.
“Childhood is the one story that stands by itself in every soul.’
~ Ivan Doig, author and novelist
(1939 ~ 2015)
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