Ruth Stone
dies at home
surrounded by
her daughters
and granddaughters.
She was 96.

If she could
she would tell
us to take our
grief and send
her a love-gram.
To write her a poem
from our heart
but never lose our
courage or sense
of humor.
She never did.

Ruth Stone
dies at home
surrounded by
her daughters
and granddaughters.
She was 96.

If she could
she would tell
us to take our
grief and send
her a love-gram.
To write her

a poem
from our heart
but never lose our
courage or sense
of humor.
She never did.

I grew up in the pasture of my grandmother’s farm. Truly I miss,
back in Indiana, this pasture. It has secrets you can find

if you wish and know it well enough. Across the creek on the
property line are wet water springs. Wild mint grows just before

the sunken opening of the neighbor’s cave just under the cliffs.
The cave I am not sure anyone remembers. Entrance hidden

and so low that not even a child could slip through fifty years ago.
I wanted to explore this cave, what child wouldn’t, but it was

guarded by a Hereford bull with a permanent cross look. Before
the bridge Dad built flowing buttercups grew on the creek’s edge.

Deep yellow waxy petals with green dark leaves. I use to stain
the bridge railings with elderberry juice late summer making

a purple-dotted bridge. All up and down the creek crawdaddys
made their abode with mud tower entrances. Knocking them

down with a stick was a child’s pure joy. After the bridge willow
trees, oak trees, tulip trees, and the tree with a crook where I hid

my cat’s long white hair. My Dad took lawn chair frames and put
boards on them. I use to tease him about his Flintstone furniture

and the shacks he built to store his junk. There are missing
hickory nut trees, three trees on top of a knoll all gone when

my Uncle John bulldozed the pasture. A path well worn up the hill
and soft dusty in the summertime. The pond with fished that

the snapping turtle ate until the creek dried up late summer Granny
told me if you were bit by a snapping turtle it wouldn’t let go

until it thundered. A barn Dad built red wood with white trim right
by the shed he built for his tractor. And the garden flowered

by iris. Oak trees grew across the creek back of the barn and then
three more by the pond. A cable swung over one limb rigged with

a board made a fine swing. A stunted cedar tree near the pink summer
hibiscus—all my treasured landmarks. Right near the pasture’s end
cattails grew in the creek back of my Uncle’s house. Our final destination
the bridge at the end of time where we would throw flowers off one side

just to race to the other to see the current carry life through and then beyond.
Even in winter sticks and stones a cure of life’s temporary woes. The wild

spring flood where banks overflowed and the current strong much of the
pasture was underwater. Yet I would play in the pasture everyday and try

and discover what it held each season. Sometimes mushrooms, old rusty
plows, I never heard of the Aurora Borealis but at dusk we would chase

flickers of light and then make lanterns out of old mason jars with holes
punched in the lid. Wings and legs would trickle in my palms and you

could see the silver green light if you made your hand a cage. All along
I barefooted through the night as long as possible. And sometime

in August daisies would smile across the creek and they would summer
with white petals and yellow centers that may charm a girl’s future.

The only green
in old Gorbals
was the graveyard.

Reminds me
of what
my Mum
use to say,
"You play
where you
must and let
life have
its way."

Leap over
the earth-
bound and
save this
day. Grow
up children,
live, and remember
you'll lay down
and fill a grave.

After a ten
mile trek--
the ocean.
Within each earth-
bound sweep
is the beauty
of silence.

"What about
its roar?"
my three
year old asks.
I answer, "Learn
to listen
between
the waves."

Page 1 | Next