CROCHETING: An Original Memoir Poem

 

I spent many of my happiest childhood days at the home of my maternal grandparents. My grandparents owned a duplex on a small side street. Two of my six first cousins lived on the other side of my grandparents’ house. The older of the two cousins was two weeks younger than I—and the other cousin was thirteen months younger. Both were girls. We played together in the summer. We celebrated holidays with each other. We grew up together at my grandparents’ house.

My grandparents kept a big vegetable garden out back. There were a number of fruit trees in their yard—apple, pear, plum. There were lilac bushes and all kinds of flowers growing there in spring and summer—including peonies, sunflowers, tulips, roses, and hydrangea. The yard was an oasis for us kids.

Here is a memoir poem I wrote about my grandmother and my cousins and I spending a beautiful spring day together. What I wrote didn’t happen exactly the way I present it in the poem. Still, there is much truth in it.

CROCHETING

The crowns of the blossoming fruit trees

are pink and white clouds.

We sit under the apple tree,

petals falling around us like spring snow.

Nearby Babci relaxes in the wide Adirondack chair

crocheting an earth-brown afghan

for our summertime picnics.

Her nimble fingers dance

as she hooks and loops

the dark yarn into intricate designs.

From a single strand

she creates a lacy island

where we will float

on a sea of soft green grass

near Dzidzi’s garden,

eating ham sandwiches,

crunching homemade pickles,

savoring our summer afternoons.

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At Wild Rose Reader, I have a review of Gulls Hold Up the Sky, J. Patrick Lewis’s first collection of poetry written for adults. The post includes some poems from Pat’s book.

At GottaBook earlier this week, Gregory Pincus featured my poem Dinosaur Dung as part of his 30 Poets/30Days celebration for National Poetry Month.

Diane has the Poetry Friday Roundup at Random Noodling.