Days were simple and Southern and Summer.

Fields lined with green stalks

or dotted with white.

John-boat nestled, flipside

in cattails by the pond.

Purr of the tractor my granddaddy drove.

The joyful sound of spirituals

my Negro nanny sang.

Mornings scented with biscuits and butter and berries.

Line-dried sheets

and bedspreads of chenille.

My brothers breath on my neck,

so scared to sleep alone.

The squish-thump from the kitchen

as Ma-Ma churned the butter.

The whistle from the morning train

slowly growing louder.

Our lives would become plentiful and polished and painful.

The fields would be left

unattended and wild.

The pond dam would break

killing the fish.

The tractor would sit rusted,

in thistles and weeds.

But for that moment:

Days were simple and Southern and Summer.

Ruby Jean Sanders