Young Bliss

I was a pilot
who twirled in
twilight copter spins
and whirled with levitating glee
when I was three.

 In snow knee deep
we lay in drifts,
like down on angels’ wings,
we flapped to carve
our silhouettes amidst
that bright white sea. 

In Springtime
bike spokes spun in sync
through back yards
leaf-lined riding rinks.
Around the bend
our snake would wind,
the youngest always
last in line –
that was me. 

In Fall, the mounds
of leaves concealed
a deep, dank universe
revealed with fingers
dug through molding beds
where squiggly earthworms
poked their heads.

When freezing winds
transformed the lake,
we briskly laced
our white boot skates,
to slip and slide
and sail and ride
the rippled ice
in search of
frozen fish. 

Spring balmy afternoons
we met with balls and sticks
to take turns up at bat.
When street lamps glowed
through navy skies
we sat curbside to chat. 

We knew that
Summertime arrived
when ice cream trucks
sang merry cries
and fleeting home,
my heart would pound,
that Mom could spare a dime.

A blizzard dumped
four feet of snow.
They closed our school three days.
We children teamed on
what to do, then
building, building
til we were blue,
we built ourselves a real igloo.

We tunneled a week
through that hard-packed snow
living the life of an Eskimo.

Throughout the seasons,
porch to porch,
triangles tinkled to return,
to eat and bathe
for early bed
with daily prayers
and wishes said. 

Hours were days,
months seemed like years,
yet all flashed like a glint,
in a glance.
From chasing each other
in tag till the dark,
we dared holding hands,
and together,
we learned how to dance.

When the time came
for my belly to swell
with babies dreaming
to be born,
I prayed for them
to share such joy
awakening each morn. 

Light years have passed
while I still reminisce
on this far away world
filled with young bliss.

 My children are grown,
those homes have passed hands,
the neighbors grew old,
some are gone. 

Yet still it’s as if
on a fine sunny day,
I wake with the sense
that it’s time to go play. 

Time to roam,
time to explore,
the season to open
every new door,
and always remember,
remember with splendor,
all that has come before.

Poem by Laura Richardson
“Maeva” painted from life by Sir Roland Richardson