A girl my age, I
don't know her name,
lived across Juday Creek,
and we'd meet to make
clover-flower chains
some hot July days.
And when bitter cold
froze the ground, we'd
skate until we couldn't
feel our toes or
noses before
calling it quits.
But Dad always was
ready for more
twirls, whirls and
figure eights
on his skates.
first published in Illinois State Poetry Society
©2015 Bonnie Manion