From my files . . .

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.
moss

 

 

 

 

 

 

© 2014 Freeda Baker Nichols

NaBloPoMo# 23 Moss and Memories

Moss and Memories

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.

Clementine

Clementine

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.

© 2013 Freeda Baker Nichols

The Woodlands

robin in the woodlandsRobin

I walked the woodlands,
my feet bare in August sun,
felt the moss beneath my toes,
watched the robin hop, then run.

Calm but wary, the small robin
stood in a military stance
as though he might be guarding
precious cargo with a glance.

I walked the woodlands on the mountain,
saw the wild geese in their flight,
heard cicadas calling cadence
when the sun slipped out of sight.

© Freeda Baker Nichols, all rights reserved