Coming to Grips


It is the whole thing
The kids in mismatched boots or barefoot
The battle to swim or push on a swing
The fruit and the nuts and the cows and the chickens
The bad poetry and the wildflowers
The frogs, the dogwoods, the milkweed, the birds
The snakes, the crayfish, the lotus
The sun
It took me a long time to realize
And I haven’t quite come to grips with it



6 thoughts on “Coming to Grips”

  1. Mary Oliver said that poetry is offering of self to the others. And for me, your offering is magical. I thank you for that.

    I really liked this piece. “The battle to swim or push on the swing” πŸ™‚ The mismatched boots reminded me of when my cousins and I were kids at grandma’s farm and would open handmade bench seats in the sunny veranda to dig through the pile of boots. It smelled like rubber and crusted mud and we would fight who gets a shinier pair or a matching pair because all the boots were communal for sharing, some entirely too big, some decades old. πŸ™‚

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