Under leaves mulched many inches thick
I uncover stepping stones pressed with
Imprints of our children’s hands, their seaglass
and shells foraged on the shores of great
lakes and warm oceans, where
we crouched and gathered in
baskets long ago when we were
limber and sun-browned, and
as yet unbothered by frailties
to come. Their little hands bring
back to life springtimes past, along
with the scented air that seldom changes
season to season, first mowings,
lily-of-the-valley, sweet woodruff,
and now, a path we’d lost but
find has been here all along.
“Look”, I say. “How far the treasures
traveled to settle in the middle-west
dirt.” “Look”, my husband says,
let’s take a break. “I need some lunch.”
Early Morning Poems 