From the driveway through the garden, to the house,
through the Spring flowers and early vegetable crowns
dotted by Irish moss and creeping winter savory
curved a peaceful path of stepping-stones.
There had been children, pets, bears, skunks, mice and moose.
From wood line, through the garden, or from unsettled foundation stones.
They would strut, skitdattel, and vamoose unchallenged;
if you leave out the occasional, “shoo!” with an apron.
There had been games, challenges, aching legs, pride slid under,
broken flowers, no flowers, whiffle ball whistles, and cries of“foul!”
It all felt the same, a few tumbles of joy and pain resolved in her ooozs
and aaaahs, as lightning and thunder was always explained
in sliding sliders, straight into her arms.
a family kitchen, was re-arraigned for such an aim.
They hopped, skipped, and jumped open space
between each stone. Sometimes with each other,
sometimes stick tapping and clacking, straggling alone.
Or, as they got older, quietly tiptoeing behind her,
as she cleared her path and swept the stones,
they would make a loud bee buzzing sound,
scaring the “bejesus” out of her.
…and maybe a little extra, waving a finger of shame.
I follow the stones, still well placed,feeling the charm
and seeing her face aged and etched by the seasons.
The children’s path, though well-worn
still has the strength to hold my feet and carry me
sliding, shuffling across the porch to the kitchen door.
[re-blog-Edit] Chapter II Love: Hot Water, Crackers, and Ketchup Soup