Looking Down

My earliest memory is deep leaves

and my feet, kicking and walking,

holding someone's left hand.

Somehow I always knew it was

my grandparents' farm, although

there is nothing else, only

deep leaves, dry and crunching

leaves all around my feet,

I'm looking down because

that's what children do.

Then, it seems only moments later,

he is walking on my left,

my son's little son,

holding my hand as we walk

along a gravel road to the farm.

He kicks the rocks and studies them.

He grasps my fingers firmly.

I watch him and turn my face

up to the blue above.

The forsythia glows like sun.

Look at my shadow! he says.

It's so big!

He is looking down, because

that's what children do.

Copyright by the author

Renick WV, 2024