Walking home at high noon you think
the air is reminiscent of
soupy peat moss, slowly mulching
your pale pores, composting the muck
of the millennia, you plow
slowly past the idle vendors
of vegetables and days yielded
to simpler times. The sidewalks reach
out in all directions, but one
carries you back to childhood
in the midst of midwest summer
when your brother grew potatoes
in the crevices of his neck
and your mother's adoration
was the soil of eternity.
I like the subtle alliteration in that first stanza....moss, mulching, millenia. Excellent write.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Brenda! So many good M words to describe this disgusting humidity :)
DeleteWe grew potatoes behind our ears. Obviously we had different mothers. :)
ReplyDeletehaha you're right! My brother grew them behind his ears as well! My mom and I couldn't help but crack up at all the places he could manage to grow them. Such is the life of a little boy in summer (before the invention of video games) :)
DeleteI like memory poems that carry one back to childhood. Wish we had some heat / humidity here. Here's mine for NaPoWriMo 11.
ReplyDeletehttp://inthecornerofmyeye.blogspot.com/2012/04/blank-spaces.html
I'll be happy to ship you some of this humidity! :)
DeleteI really like your poem, Mary. All of it rings true.
A delicious poem (sorry about your humidity angst, but you write about it so well). My mum used to complain about the tidemark, showing where I'd stopped washing, usually down as far as the chin!
ReplyDeletehaha that's so adorable :) Thank you so much for reading and commenting, vivinfrance :)
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