Poetry Challenge 67

After a month of sad news, the snow is melted and the temperatures are above freezing pretty much consistently.  We’re in what passes for spring in the Interior–the brown-up period of mud, dead grass, and January’s trash come back to remind us of winter’s events.   The air is warm and moist after months of dry and bitter cold.

In her blog Wild Roots Homestead, my neighbor, Emily, writes of her toddler’s reaction to seeing the dirt emerge after a whole winter’s snow.  “What’s that?” she asked, and Emily said, “It’s dirt, remember?”

So write about something that was once as familiar as dirt, but now seems new and strange–full of possibilities.

Post it in the comments and I’ll add it to this post.

————————————

This came from Karen at KD’s Bookblog:

At the Level of Dirt

Until Gram died when I was seven, I lived
at the level of dirt—powdery and dry
beneath the overarching honeysuckle
near the porch, drifted deep into cracks
of the empty carriage shed, scuffed
and tamped hard beneath my rope swing
hanging from one of four huge sugar maples.

The long gravel driveway ended in a patch
of yellow sand where I traced thin roads leading
nowhere. Our narrow blacktop circled
to the village either way. Side roads
without signs suggested nothing. Mostly,

Gram and I walked through the hayfield
and crossed a low stone wall to visit
Millie Stuart. She and Gram listened
to their stories on the radio. Millie died
first and her husband, Cecil, burned
things in a barrel. Ash drifted upward,
pulling my gaze away from the ground
where I stood, rooted and uprooted.

Karen Douglass

Advertisements

Tags: , , , , ,

4 Responses to “Poetry Challenge 67”

  1. Digital Poetry Says:

    Excellent post! I enjoyed reading it very much.

    Poetry will never loose it’s touch even as we enter this digital age. Thanks for sharing.

    A Poem for Mothers

  2. Karen Douglass Says:

    Great prompt, I’m on it.

  3. Karen Douglass Says:

    At the Level of Dirt

    Until Gram died when I was seven, I lived
    at the level of dirt—powdery and dry
    beneath the overarching honeysuckle
    near the porch, drifted deep into cracks
    of the empty carriage shed, scuffed
    and tamped hard beneath my rope swing
    hanging from one of four huge sugar maples.

    The long gravel driveway ended in a patch
    of yellow sand where I traced thin roads leading
    nowhere. Our narrow blacktop circled
    to the village either way. Side roads
    without signs suggested nothing. Mostly,

    Gram and I walked through the hayfield
    and crossed a low stone wall to visit
    Millie Stuart. She and Gram listened
    to their stories on the radio. Millie died
    first and her husband, Cecil, burned
    things in a barrel. Ash drifted upward,
    pulling my gaze away from the ground
    where I stood, rooted and uprooted.

    Karen Douglass

  4. Karen Douglass Says:

    Thanks!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s


%d bloggers like this: