spring walk
Spring Leaves, Teri Jonas
It snaked around my finger,
the dandelion she gave me –
and we made wishes as we blew
the cottony seeds that drifted
away like small parachutes,
floating high over our heads
while we
walked down the other side of the hill
and dropped stones in the grate
by the road; and sticks, too.
Anything we could find, really.
Sand, and gravel, and the
stems of headless flowers,
picked and discarded
as the petals came off and
lay in a row behind us, a trail in our wake,
as in a fairy tale – evidence that
we were there. A path to lead
us back home.
Her feet in pink sequined shoes,
her hand in mine felt so
small and fragile, I held it lightly,
feeling as if I might crush it
if I held it too tightly. Her wispy hair
in her eyes, she stooped to feel
the sand in the sidewalk, sieved
it through her fingers
and watched it fall,
mica and pebbles mixed with
the dirt and old bird’s feathers.
“Don’t touch it,” I told her
as she went for some trash folded in
the grass like some improbable sculpture.
She stopped and backed away,
and I felt a fleeting bit of
regret, as I want the world to be hers,
and she to belong to the world,
want her to know all its cruelty and heart,
its disarray and humming rhythm,
and to be afraid of nothing, not even
the bees dipping in the honeysuckle;
not even
the soft, round beetles
burrowing their noses into
the palm of her hand.
ah, but you never can be too careful about garbage…
lovely poem.
great poem; makes me wistful and misty about walks like this with our little boy Ian, when he was that size, and who, in a few days, will be 17 going on 25.
i love your blog. if i ever start one, you’ll know why…
Cathy, it’s true. I always find myself in a bit of a conundrum, when faced with garbage on the ground. Do I pick it up and carry it around with me until I find a trash bin? Or, do I leave it there, even though it’s pollution? I suppose it just comes down to the type of trash it might be. A piece of paper – okay. A hypodermic needle? Not so much.
Thanks for the kind words, friend. xo
OH, Skip, I think about this kind of thing all the time. Sometimes I look at their little faces when they’re intent on doing something, and think how fleeting it all is, that in no time at all they’ll be eighteen and out the door. (Or, fourteen and out the door)! I hold onto every precious minute with them, cherish these times when they WANT to spend time with me, want me to be with them always, and hope and wish that it will always be so – to an extent. Of course, I want them to fly away in their own lives and find their own way. But I hope that we will always be happy and comforted in each other’s company.
If you ever start a blog, you MUST tell me. I’d love to read it. Or, perhaps you could start a photography blog. You definitely have enough material, and your work is amazing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a picture of yours that is just so-so. They are all wonderful. In fact, you inspire ME with your photographs.
xo
“Spring Leaves” is a poem of the Earth and brings back memories for me as a boy in the midwest.
I will be in North America in a few days. I have been reading John Updike poetry as a precursor to my 30 day journey back to my past.
Poetry is my sustenance, I have so much more to experience.
Thank you for sharing Ophelia.
Gustav, when will you be in the states? Or, perhaps you already are..? Are you visiting family?
I LOVE John Updike.
Hope you have a lovely visit. Thinking of you!
xo