You brought me a guinea feather from the barn.
I said, "...a guinea feather...."
You know, and you knew, grandma and I used to guinea egg hunt
on the Phillips' farm in Bergman.
Funny, I was busy googling for my cousin Mark
when you brought that
speckled and fading feather.
I found him on the front porch with his dachsund.
I found him at a familly reunion with grandma and grandpa,
Annabeth in the background,
Mark and I used to walk barefoot to Crooked Creek
(back when kids could be loosed for the day with no fear)
back in those Arkansas summer days.
Later, I would sit on the banks of Crooked Creek alone
my notebook and pen in hand, a Saul Bellow book for my companion,
the rocks a cold barren gray, the shade under
the bower, deep.
Once Debbie was there with me
once a whole creative writing class, and Dee Dee,
Dee Dee was the algae queen that day.
Those days were green and golden, and I was sad, and
didn't even know I had nothing to be sad about.
Memories seem like guinea feathers,
all speckled and fading.