Memory

Summers were long in that time,
And down the road, the
Cranky old woman who lived
Amid her hollyhocks on the
Shabby farm
Would sell you a glass quart of
Heaven's cream
Only, tho, if you were nice.
It was hard to figure her out.
After dinner we played kickball,
In our field, or maybe it was the
NeIghbor's field, but I can't recall
For sure.

My grandmother would go into
The orchard to pick apples,
Cherries too, for pies,
And she sat in the short grass
Dad kept mowed, out there
Under the big willow.
Once she settled so quietly
Into the green weedy
Sweet-smelling place
That a wee garter snake wriggled
Away from her intrusion
But she wasn't in the
Least plussed.

Later this place flows far
From my childhood,
Still anchoring me in
Such palpable ways,
As is the task of memory
In the striving for the stories.
Now, did I really live there?
Did my grandmother lean
Back against the willow and
Tap her cane in random punctuating
Of her stories,
Did her green eyes flash with
Merriment or mirth as she
Fabricated life?
No matter, for I couldn't
Sort it out if the
Queen appeared
To tease out my recall with
Some reward.
I think, in my long days, about
Stories, and that embellishing
Is simply how the frame
Illuminates as
We move along.