. . . Gone . . .
Through dandelioned meadow, up steep grassy hill,
down to the babbling brook,
I strolled in the breeze, pants rolled to my knees,
with my fishin' pole, stringer, and hook.
My five little worms had the squiggles and squirms
in their cut-in-half carton of dirt,
As I sat on smooth rocks, filled my shoes with my socks,
and rolled the sleeves of my daddy's old shirt.
Down under bright sun, where clear waters run,
I could lie on those rocks all day long.
Old cane pole in hand, feet wet in silt-sand,
my heart flew through white clouds like a song.
My pa, he got mad, and my ma, she seemed sad
that I spent little time on my chores,
But the beckoning brook called to me and my hook
to come visit its green, grassy shores.
There's just somethin' so neat about wading bare feet
in the babbling brook over the hill,
Yet I don't care for fishin' as much as for wishin'
I was young and could visit there still.
© Donna Arthur Downs