In summer hot

the screen door nudged open by the dog

flies sneaking in

my mother rolled pies

clipped beans

mixed cucumber with tomato

and said “GO PLAY”

with a severe nod to outdoors.

So I, and the dog

with Louisa May Alcott.

slunk out the door

welcoming flies

and wandered by my father

who, bent under the neighbor’s hood

his elbow black with grease

one boot on the bumper

was swearing at foreigners

and their goddam cars.

I tripped by barefoot

avoiding bees

with grass on my soles

and the wagging dog

until “STAY”, I ordered

with a stern fat finger

and his grin was lost

as he sat

and scratched

and pouted

and I went to the shed

where chickens pecked and murmured

and cocked their head in sudden jerks at my approach.

I slid open the door

to sit, cross legged

on the hay in the corner

and read them Little Women

giving voices to Amy

and Meg

and Jo

softening my tone at the rooster

eyeing his spurs with frightened thrill

as he winked at my book

studying Beth.

When the heat crept in

I left my birds

advising them to discuss all they had learned

and practiced a cartwheel on the way to the house

still watching for bees.

Banging the screen door

apples and cinnamon in the stove

my mother, flushed

blew hair from her eyes

and looked me over

sighing tired

at the hay in my hair

and my dirty feet.

Thank you!

Becky Lane Autumn 2025