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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Elvin Allen 1889 – 1905 They were like iron trees! Hundreds of them! Poking and piercing their way into the sun-lit sky, Like moist fingers Testing the wind direction to the east. I was born into this Quaker town on Bright Street. If you take a left from Broadway , You will see it Our little white house with the dormer gables And the shaded front porch Where dad and mom sat on hot summer afternoons Reading the Bible And knitting my sister’s soft sweaters for winter time. And we all sipped cold lemonade, In glasses that twinkled in the sun. I loved baseball. And I loved hiking in the hills there To the east. Where I hunted squirrels and jackrabbits With my taut leather sling. And I kissed Belva there. Then on the day I died, I decided to climb one of them, One of those iron fingers, One of those hundreds of oil derricks That sucked black crude from the hollow ground, There in the eastern hills. I almost made it to the top that day, Inching slowly slowly slowly Up the side wooden ladder, But I lost my footing nevertheless And fell to my death at age 16. And now here I rest Waiting by this old rotting oak tree, Here in Clark Cemetery, Waiting for my bodily resurrection, And thirsting, forever thirsting For one more twinkling glass Of mom’s cold lemonade.
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