Aunt Mila was the one collecting the eggs every morning but the chore is now mine. We have an extra daily egg since she has flown off and Grandma uses them to bake a cake every other day. Grandpa ... [+]
Wetly they plunged into the
Heart of their backyard. The ground
Was brown and green and white, the
Leftover snow clumping into
Dark, icy puddles, or
glistening white mounds. A few
Weeds had returned already,
Peppering the brown with green.
But underneath it all was
Mud; profuse, oozing, suckling
Mud, like a baby at your boots,
Clinging to each step and dropping
Away with a moist pop. The
Earth was rising from winter
With all the grace of a
Pubescent teenager.
They played in the snow for the
Last time, and then went inside,
And thirsted for summer.
Heart of their backyard. The ground
Was brown and green and white, the
Leftover snow clumping into
Dark, icy puddles, or
glistening white mounds. A few
Weeds had returned already,
Peppering the brown with green.
But underneath it all was
Mud; profuse, oozing, suckling
Mud, like a baby at your boots,
Clinging to each step and dropping
Away with a moist pop. The
Earth was rising from winter
With all the grace of a
Pubescent teenager.
They played in the snow for the
Last time, and then went inside,
And thirsted for summer.