Imprompt Image

The Path

As a child,

how many times

did I run barefoot

down our grassy hill

across the gravely road

through Pappap’s yard

between the ponds

across the stout bridge,

the tiny bridge

and the high, long bridge

over the stony creek

to my cousins’ house

in the woods?

So many times

that if I close my eyes

I can feel

moss and soft grasses,

tarry gravel,

rough wood

and the beaten path

under my feet.

I can hear

Canada Geese honking

bobwhite quails calling,

peep frogs peeping

and crickets singing.

I can smell

freshly mown grass,

blossoms on apple trees

air washed clean after the rain.

I can see

familiar houses of relatives

and neighbors, willows, oaks,

maples, apple trees and pines,

tiger lilies, clover

touch-me-nots.

I can taste

the plums, grapes, elderberries,

and Siberian crabapples.

I can recall

all the games we played,

trouble we’d get into,

adventures we lived through,

laughter, arguments,

songs, make believe,

through the seasons and

padding back and forth

between our houses

never thinking someday

it would all be

just memories imprinted

on our souls.