11 – In My Quietude

By Carrillee Collins Burke

I dream of childhood days . . . .
Sledding trails, pines red with cardinals,
hot chocolate in speckled enamelware mugs,
and wet mittens drying by an open fire.

Then, as if God knew we’ve had enough winter,
He brought robins back and gave us dogwood
on the mountain and redbud in the vale . . . maple
trees with designer leaves, and mayapple carpets.

Sultry days with rhododendron enclosing
the swimming hole we dropped into from an old
sycamore’s wild grapevine. . . warm rains, mud
between our toes, June bugs on strings, and fireflies
jailed in Mason jars.

Too quickly, sultry turns to cool, and foliage
into happy crayon colors. I don’t talk about it,
but often I dream of hiking hills
and crunching dried leaves beneath my feet.
I yearn to hear the sound of cow bells pursue
the sun over a hill as evening draws nigh.

Alas, I am only a dreamer— dreaming
of my past while living in eternal sunshine,
where seasons never change.