She knew that one day she would accomplish her dream, if she continued to work at it diligently. Walking through the wet leaves, she stopped to look at the moss. She recalled that as a child she often played beside little patches of green moss. And even then she lost herself in reverie. Perhaps that was the beginning of her life as a writer. Daydreams are part of every child’s life, but for her they were a way to become lost in a world which did not exist, but was vivid in her imagination.
Clear water drifts through swimming holes,
across flat rocks, down waterfalls,
through canebrakes full of fishing poles
where owls are practicing their calls.
The milky way and moon still shine
above a field of weeds and thorn,
the place our heifer, Clementine,
delivered a small calf one morn.
By coal-oil lantern’s golden light,
I braced the calf’s unsteady feet,
in shadows deep and late at night,
so that the calf could stand and eat.
Moss grows now where choppin’ block stood
in shade of leafy black jack tree.
When Daddy split the kindling wood,
he handed small pine chips to me
to place inside an apple crate,
behind the stove in our front room.
The paling fence and broken gate
still stand and pink azaleas bloom.
I love the smog-free mountain air
around our house of weathered boards.
Each spring, Mama planted with care
speckled beans and big, dipper gourds.