IMOGENE’S NOTEBOOK
In the Field
A poem
When we were young
we picked Queen Anne’s lace,
black-eyed Susans,
pink clover.
We watched clouds
and chewed stems of grass.
At the brook, we kicked off our
shoes and caught pollywogs.
The water was cold.
Should we go back the field way or the road way?
We walked up the hill, the sun high,
our shoes scuffing the blacktop
(We’d chosen the road).
Soon we could see the front lawn
where Mom taught us croquet.
We presented our flowers, wilted now.
Grandma put them in a glass
and placed them on the window sill.
I could study pink clover
as I filled my glass with water.
Later we played cards in the living room.
Nine, ten of spades on a wooden playing board.
When it was time, we set the table,
ate the soup Grandma had made,
and chose raspberries
or strawberries
for dessert.
