Poetry Sunday - 20 Acres
My grandson likes to play in the snow.
He doesn’t know I have a book
To write, so he walks
Like Sunday all over this old farm
Chasing the creek, searching
For Lewis or Clark, plops down
To make a body print, tosses handfuls
Of himself in the air like confetti.
I guess I let myself forget
What it was to be three, to be
Concerned with now more than
What could be. I stick to the old white
Fence as if protecting thoughts,
Wait on the future while words
Go neglected. Through the fog and sunlight
I hear “Poppy! Poppy!” but my mind
Has wandered so far and this poem
Has reached its end because even though
There are no tears I’ve run out of metaphors.
@Originalworks
I like this one, especially these lines: he walks like Sunday all over this old farm & tosses handfuls of himself in the air like confetti both are lovely in their illustration of his bright and guileless spirit.
Thank you. He was quite the playful lad. Now, at 15, he's into girls, cars, and baseball. But he's a workhorse and spends his off-duty hours doing lawn work for Franklins.
Thanks for reading.