I’d love to visit the grove of blooming redbuds on the edge
of Daddy’s pasture all covered up now, since they built
the reservoir, but I picture them purple trees, and about
this time of year, the daffodils our folks planted after we married,
swaying by the corner of the house.
If you look up at the sky then back at the blue dancing on the surface
of the water, milk clouds and geese, you see them upsy-daisy
right at your feet . Them things is all around us come springtime-
still it’s not the same. Dive down, you might find the treehouse
we made as kids by Salt Creek, Dad’s purple heart medal stuck to a board,
the fork I used to dig in the garden. Long gone, but I wonder.
Gives me the willies to walk alongside the lake remembering
how our horses swam when the floods came, Mama’s fit
when she finally saw the paltry government check, the kittens we left
to drown. Those were bitter days for sure. Stand on dry land
today and imagine it all underwater. Folks in boats, drinking beers, and
spying eagles don’t remember but I do.
The path through the pines, the curtain of willows coming up
by the creek, the way you’d part them like making an entrance
to some fine party when you were only ever just heading home.
Early Morning Poems 