One Summer at Grandma's

     My cousins and I
     gathering each summer at Grandma’s
     like kids at a camp
     chase yellow jacks from bloom to bloom
     We skip through the green
     braids dancing like wind chimes
     innocent, singing
     “...he loves me…he loves me not...”
     Beneath a pastel sky
     we sample earth, tasty
     feast off of grapes and apples before their time
     green and sour but good
     We let our minds explore
     borrowing from fairy tales and soaps
     as we play house canning berries
     like Grandma made jam
     in old Mason jelly jars.
     Oops! Fire!
     Firemen come.
     Battle blaze.
     Grandma takes her turn.
     Momma takes her turn.
     Boy, did I learn
     not to play with matches


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