POPPING JEWELWEED

POPPING JEWELWEED

 

I didn’t when I was a child. Dad showed me

how when I was well-grown. We were in Newport,

Lake Memphremagog, at my uncle’s camp.

Mist on the water—that water always

cold. Fish under the dock. The old canoes

pulled up on the shore, the brick fireplace

where we toasted marshmallows. The big jug

of drinking water brought from town. Sarah

and I went to Canada once, to buy

fireworks we smuggled back in a beach bag.

A long time ago. The camp is gone, Dad

and Uncle Colin, too. But this morning,

I popped jewelweed along a path I walk

now, by a river. Mist on the water.

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One comment on “POPPING JEWELWEED

  1. Thank-you for the lovely shared vision of the past. Lovely poem. I have such wonderful memories of Magog. I remember a cold, rainy fall weekend. After a big meal-lounging around,watching the storm,hearing the “New Christiy Minstrels” for the first time. Also, reading Colly’s collection of Ian Fleming’s James Bond books and playing Rummy with Maggie. Love ya, Cathy

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