At six years old she picked the wild violets here
in the huge and wonderful expanse of her
grandparents big garden.
She knew no fear,no worry,no torment at all.
All she had to accomplish that day was to fill her little fist
with a bunch of the wild,wet,tantalizing,
blue and white violets.
... Everywhere she looked she saw them...
nodding like dreamers in the tall,damp grass.
just out of reach
and where they grew was wet,
and her shoes got cold and damp as water crept up
and touched her.
She could hear people coming to her grandfather's mill,getting jobs done,
and stopping to chat.
It was the background of this hot day in June.
Grasshoppers and crickets were there too
as much a part of her childhood as anything else.
She thought they were amazing.
She saw her grandmother go to the store..
she was too far away to hear her call
it felt strange
and she got a little scared.
Suddenly the big garden seemed dark and and full of
monsters.
The sun went behind a cloud and sweat washed her
hot little face.
She reached mightily for a few
more wet violets
and raced to her grandfather and
the sweet smell of the sawdust and wood.
Saved by childhood.