A Patch of Yellow

Patch of Yellow


I lie on my back in the tallest grass,

a nesting bird, hidden

just below the hill's crest.

Buttery weeds flutter in

delight above me.

My mother calls me, distant.

I know she won't come into the field.

I hear the screen door clap shut.

 

I twirl a frilled stem, a ballerina

on tiptoe atop my plaid and buttoned belly.

She tilts her head to the side, flaxen hair flying free.

She shimmers where her edges touch the sun.

 

The sky is my secret lake,

framed by waves of dancing goldenrod.

The sun is my blanket.

The breeze my silken bedsheet. 

--Deborah Johnson Wood

 


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The Art and Writing of Barbara Rizza Mellin


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