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July 04, 2022

Edges

By Barbara Link

Edges

Stunned by the smell of cut grass
I stop.
Watch the mower whirring, whirring,
Leaving long, skinny, windrows,
Of green.

Suddenly, it's every summer of my life.
Again
I'm nine.
Jan and I sit on the hot curb.
Suck grape Popsicles,
Tongue the drips
From our dusty arms.

Later we beg for a sleepover
In our screen porch.
We roll out sleeping bags,
Fat green armyworms
Dropped from trees.

After dark we sneak out
In seersucker pj's.
Flitting into backyards and gardens,
Clumsy ballerinas.

We crunch gritty carrots.
Fence with stalks of pink rhubarb.
Slap arms and legs,
Stinging wet whips.

We dash the warm sidewalk
To the last block in town.
A vacant lot, waiting for
Wet cement, fragrant wood, ringing hammers.

We perch on the fresh-dirt-basement-hole,
Dangle feet over the edge.
Our fingers grip the dirt clods,
As a huge black and white sky wheels above.
We're terribly, terribly small,
But not afraid.






Article © Barbara Link. All rights reserved.
Published on 2017-02-06
6 Reader Comments
Beth scottAnonymous
02/06/2017
11:04:41 PM
FANTASTIC BARB! I could feel every word!
barbara dorsett
02/07/2017
10:02:07 AM
Barbara link has such a way with words. i lived that experience. thank you for sharing
Anne S. Da Vigo
02/07/2017
01:18:40 PM
You are able to catch the essence of things so well! This poem doesn't evoke memory so much as transporting me to that actual moment of girlhood.
Jennings
02/07/2017
06:58:12 PM
I thoroughly enjoyed Barbara Line's poem! Thank you so much for sharing.
Elaine Rose
02/07/2017
08:00:37 PM
I could add a few more things but you captured the scene beautifully!
Sarah Marburger
02/12/2017
08:57:36 PM
This beautiful poem took me back to my summers as a young girl - what a wonderful feeling!
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