I spent many of my happiest childhood days at the home of my maternal grandparents. My grandparents owned a duplex on a small side street. Two of my six first cousins lived on the other side of my grandparents’ house. The older of the two cousins was two weeks younger than I—and the other cousin was thirteen months younger. Both were girls. We played together in the summer. We celebrated holidays with each other. We grew up together at my grandparents’ house.
My grandparents kept a big vegetable garden out back. There were a number of fruit trees in their yard—apple, pear, plum. There were lilac bushes and all kinds of flowers growing there in spring and summer—including peonies, sunflowers, tulips, roses, and hydrangea. The yard was an oasis for us kids.
Here is a memoir poem I wrote about my grandmother and my cousins and I spending a beautiful spring day together. What I wrote didn’t happen exactly the way I present it in the poem. Still, there is much truth in it.
CROCHETING
The crowns of the blossoming fruit trees
are pink and white clouds.
We sit under the apple tree,
petals falling around us like spring snow.
Nearby Babci relaxes in the wide Adirondack chair
crocheting an earth-brown afghan
for our summertime picnics.
Her nimble fingers dance
as she hooks and loops
the dark yarn into intricate designs.
From a single strand
she creates a lacy island
where we will float
on a sea of soft green grass
near Dzidzi’s garden,
eating ham sandwiches,
crunching homemade pickles,
savoring our summer afternoons.
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At Wild Rose Reader, I have a review of Gulls Hold Up the Sky, J. Patrick Lewis’s first collection of poetry written for adults. The post includes some poems from Pat’s book.
At GottaBook earlier this week, Gregory Pincus featured my poem Dinosaur Dung as part of his 30 Poets/30Days celebration for National Poetry Month.
