My mind plays games when
I visit the old house,
images flicker in my memory.
Ghosts of me racing
through familiar grass,
climbing trees, nursing
stubbed toes from barefoot
scrambles.
I stand in the old patch of
Mom's favorite clover plant, seeing
once again, her on a blanket
searching for four-leaf clovers, scolding me
for errant tosses of a Frisbee.
Looking down the hill, I see
winter-slick roads with sleds
bouncing, skidding, throwing sparks
with the tick-tick-tick of gravel
under the runners.
I see teenaged me, staring skyward
with awe, star chart in hand,
as the heavens wheel above in
eternal glory.
Another me is pushing
the old manual mower, the
snick-snick of the blades a
homesick sound, and yet
how happy I was when
we finally got a power mower.
I see the old cement slab porch
with fifty year-old crack from
my brother's attempt to jack it up
to retrieve a lost marble.
Yes, I see the ghosts of me, and
watch them, knowing
I can be proud of who I am.
Some of my favorite poems harken back to a time gone by. I like how one memory propels us on to the next and the next, and how memories once wispy become concrete when dwelt upon.
I like how you take us through the different stages of your growth through seasons change and the neighborhood that you grew up in. The imagery in this is wonderful. Enjoyed it.
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Cryssa :~)
Another me is pushing
the old manual mower, the
snick-snick of the blades a
homesick sound,
... lovely combination of powerful description and interpretation. Thank you. Kate xx