Sunday, April 21, 2019

In "Michigan" Woods



I’d never trade the roaring brook
that bordered our front yard
for anything.  My brother took
his Blazer up the road.
A logging camp was struck up there
about at century’s end.
I jumped across the stream on rocks
to pick some flowers I’d seen.
He soon joined.  I showed the flowers;
once more we’re in our teens.
He’d pulled a fish off of my hook
when I was barely twelve.
I cried, I’ve caught him in the eye. 
Will he be all right? I asked.
He’ll be fine.  He threw him back
and then rejoined his friends.
We went back home, my friends and I. 
I never fished again.
I remind him of the story now,
we, in our seventies. 
He smiles the smile you give a child
whose tears start at a glance.

©2019

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