For two women who taught me.

Sitting on your couch,
Holding sea shells far from home,
I watch you crochet,
your hands and hook dripping lace
that foams on your lap.

Your children beg you,
"Come to Florida, with us"
But hills are your home,
So you teach me old ways,
hoping memory will live.

********

In the county home,
Dark, dusty, lonely, sad
I come to visit,
for you have magic hands
that can crochet new worlds

Bright colored cheap yarn
brings sunshine indoors to you,
Making new flowers
I sit on your bed, learning,
your hands guiding mine.

Another childhood picture

Twelve years old,
apron on, making dinner,
younger children wait.

Dinner finished,
Bathtime finished, bedtime story
Then a book to read.

Up until midnight,
cup of tea, dinner ready,
waiting for Mom.

Childhood stories

Two sisters sit
Underneath shared quilts
Telling stories
Outside, the winds howl and moan
Blowing high drifted snow.

Memories of green shade
Soft purple phox trembing in the breeze
That tiptoes between the trees
Tickling the hair on my neck

Moss-covered limestone bones
Hold the prints of ancient years,
Beside the ironwood tree
My resting, hiding, me-place

Deep clay in the valley,
Carved by long-ago glacier waters,
Still holds Johnny Crick,
Cool water for restless feet

Tangled berry brambles,
Long meadow grasses,
Cows gaze in bemusement
As I embrace the summer wind

Home.

Evening in the hills.
Summer breezes lift my song,
Ruffle the cornfields.
Green forest whispers my name.
Running through memory's land...