robert mccloskey, "blueberries for sal"
the inkling
i was older than sal.
she was five or six, i was eight or nine,
well past the age
of reading "blueberries for sal."
i had no need to read it,
my mother having read it to me
hundreds of times as my favored
bedtime story. i knew every word.
it was the illustrations
which held me rapt, seemingly
for hours on end, illustrations
of sal's mother, particularly
the illustration of sal
and her mother in the kitchen,
canning the freshly picked blueberries.
i cared nothing about blueberries,
or sal, only her mother.
i could not tear my eyes away.
to this day a warmth comes my way
when i look at those pages, as i am now.
Poetry by one trick pony
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Written on 2015-06-11 at 04:58
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Lawrence Beck |
countryfog |