Janet Bingham Poet Prose Poetry

The Hiding Place

I remember those lazy days of summer
when we rode away on horseback
down dusty, deserted country roads;
took our shoes and socks off;
neared the trail to the river;
walked so free and easy;
gouging out that red Alabama loam
with our toes.

When we got to our fishing hole,
you took worms and baited my hook;
then, served me your specialty,
peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
We ate while I listened to the whippoorwills
imitating other birds miles down stream;
echoing back their strange, haunting melodies.
I fell asleep there, still holding on to my fishing pole.

You never listened to those country sounds.
I now wish they'd return,
those free and easy days of summer
when the wind blew all our problems away
like crumpled up pieces of paper
and saved them for us
another year in its hiding place
stashed behind the thicket.

Janet Marie Bingham

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