Seven

I would swirl around in a symmetrical circle
surrounded by mountains:
navy, cobalt, azure, grey.
They told stories, beckoning
me to listen and savor
tales from Grandma Ruth
who had weathered a thousand days,
always kind, always interested.

The farm where my grandparents dwelled,
those corn fields standing proudly,
as the fruits of their labor
hummed and sang, standing erect,
swallowing the sun, smiling,
were forever alluring, as I ran
in between rows that crisscrossed
dazzling paths, where hide-and-seek
became the game of choice,
as my curious cousins would discover
me hiding beneath a carefree stalk.

The Holstein cows breathed and cried
as they were summoned
to the machines which attached
to flagrant udders; distracted,
they would feed on diet
of straw, soy, hay, and legumes,
then escorted back into the pasture
having already forgotten
their recent trauma.

This was how it was, blue skies
enshrined by billowing clouds
that floated until night befell,
as stirring stars gleamed,
the constellation Orion
always flashing his belt,
searching until we spotted
the Big Dipper, completed
with the arrival of the North Star:
the telescope magnifying
illuminations displaying
round orbs of green, blue, and gold
for dancing eyes to absorb.

Uncomplicated, revering,
always ascertaining an existence
full of magic, I always return
to those dazzling days,
wistful of engaging remembrances,
grateful of the memories that molded
me into the man I have become,
a witness to the ever changing world.

(C) Michael Wayne Holland, 4/30/12