Tuesday, December 8, 2015

Picking Wildflowers: Featured Poem From Every Flaw Every Perfection December BOM

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As I've previously posted I thought I'd let you read at your own pace this month and in place of a reading schedule I will be posting a weekly poem. After the last poem I posted, one of the readers stated how much she loved Picking Wildflowers, so I thought I'd share it with you.

It was written for my Papa Carl Amidon just a few weeks before he died. He had asked me if I remembered bringing him bouquets of wildflowers, and I wanted him to know not only did I remember that, but that he had made a huge impact on my life.

So, I wrote the poem Picking Wildflowers. I truly hope you enjoy it, and if you haven't gotten your copy of Every Flaw Every Perfection, look for it on Amazon. It's available in print and Kindle edition.

Picking Wildflowers 

For years I had a recurring dream.
The sun was bright and warm, and
I was free-falling, falling somewhere familiar
but forgotten; and, in that dream
you were there waiting for me
encouraging me to do it over and over again.

With each free-fall came a resounding splash,
and the reward of fresh watermelon.
When I told you, I saw the surprise in your blue eyes,
the soft smile on your lips,
and you said that was us at Third Bootie;
and I, I couldn’t have been
more than two you thought,
but I remembered.

It seems only a day has passed since
we sat together in your old blue pick-up truck,
driving off together in the cool of the early morning, and
living our next adventure.

We traveled all those back roads,
just the two of us,
sometimes hocking watermelons,
peaches, or tomatoes along the way.
What a pair we made.

I could tell countless stories;
boarding up the creek so I could swim,
setting up targets so I could shoot,
hunting for night crawlers for fishing trips, and
you encouraging me, a little tone deaf girl, to sing.

Papa, I could go on and on,
and there still wouldn’t  be enough
days or hours to tell the stories alive in my heart,
but what means the most to me
is not the stories I could tell, not my memories.

What matters most is that you are a part of me,
and I will always take that with me
no matter where I travel, or the things I do.

Because of you,
I’ll always have a field of buttercups at my feet
and an Indian paintbrush in my hand, picked just for you.

You once asked,
if I remembered bringing you bouquets of fresh wildflowers,
How could I forget, Papa?

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