I look to my left,
to the tall grass,
now golden, but of a gold
no use to anyone except
the farmer who comes to
cut it for hay and of you,
Corrie, in my memory
when you’d rush through
it unafraid of any snake,
and I called you back.
You said, “But, Mommy,
I want to go into the
woods, too.” Because in
the woods I took your
brother on an obstacle
course. What a sight to
see your mother on
fallen trees, and I
treated it as a balance
beam as I crossed over
a valley where I could’ve
taken the fall. Your brother
followed me up, over and under.
You corrected me and said, “I’m
big enough to go in the woods,
too.” I raised my eyebrows and
looked at you in your blue skirt
with golden dots along its lace.
I said, “You cannot wear skirts
into the woods.” You corrected
me and said, “But princesses do.”
I knew you’d balance on the tree
better than me, and then if you
fell, you’d say you were bleeding
when only a scratch crossed your knee.
Through a part in the trees, you found
a freedom with me. Far from the noises
made by people, news and technology.
I’d take you, skirt with golden dots and
all, into the woods. If you fell, I’d put
a band aid over your scratch.
Out the window, see the tall grass.
I hear you say, “Mommy, go out.” In my
mind and its space, I argue, “I don’t want
to.” The gold pales when compared to new
rings in the hometown store. The gold was
never of any use except to the farmer and me.
Golden dots bounce along the lace
over your dress as you put on tennis
shoes caked with dirt across the bottom.
When I open my eyes, you’re gone to a
place I cannot follow. You say to no one
but me, “Get up, Mommy! Walk the field
and the trees. It is okay to remember me.”
Corrie's Season 