image from flickr.com
poem written as an introduction to a chapter in my book of memoir vignettes, Shoebox Stories.
Morning light drifts soft and meek through cottonwoods that lean and speak, their shadows brushing childhood’s cheek down by old Duck Creek. Barefoot summers, warm and slow, grass stains where our young dreams would grow, the world felt small enough to know down by old Duck Creek. Cicadas hummed their dusty tune, a cloudless Texas sky in June, and time moved gentle as the moon down by old Duck Creek. Now memory walks where I once ran, a grown heart holding what it can, still hearing God in wind and sand down by old Duck Creek.
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