July 13, 2014
In the gables found us three,
Characterizing the summers we counted in the M-I-ssippi,
We created our newest constitutions in the dampness of the Southern trees,
In thin cottoned dresses colored by the sweet sweat of a garden sheen.
The trees held our homes and we explored the worlds between,
Reddened cheeks defined the length of years that our day had seen,
Our prints littered the mud room screen,
And the water from the right corner spicket never quite washed them clean.
The prayers lifted up over skinned knees and hurted words we didn’t mean,
these are the things I number when counting the marks left from childhood adventures in every place we have been.
By Ris Howie