God's little acreage just below a grove of pine
Which
in season wore the sweet cologne of nature's gift;
The
warm clean scent of honeysuckle lingering in
Morning
dew which touches wild huckleberry bushes
Clinging
near the ground.
The
garden clearing held a maze of bush and vine,
A
quarter acre filled with roadside vendor's ware
Which
mother rather gave away than charge a tariff
For
their growing; an abundance more
Than
we could use before their freshness faded past.
But
I, in youth, was forever intrigued by
The
narrow strip at the garden's edge, where a
Trickle
of water somewhere upstream grew to a band
A
few feet wide and sliced a miniature canyon through
The
lower quadrant of our land.
Tall
trees bordered on all sides, ancient in their guardianship.
Moss
and fern attested to the quiet seclusion from the sun.
Elderberry
lined her sides with deep red-blooded sweet repast,
Which
mother captured in a jar to last
Through
winter's coldest days.
In
Summer we would force her waters back
Into
her shallow banks with stone and stick and sand,
A
man-made dam of rudimentary skill, which washed away
The
first strong rain that fell to quell
Our
foolish youthful dreams.
Funny
how the time goes by and memories fade into night.
But
certain aspects in our youth are lasting thoughts... unwavering.
The
creek below the garden is undying in my meager mind;
A
cave-wall painting etched in stone...
A fond remembering.
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