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Virgin Ground

He was the neighbor boy
and I, the city girl
banished to the countryside
to the grandparents,
to learn hard work
on the dairy-farm.

The rumbling train after the long flight,
jumbled my brain;
everything outside that train window
bumped along;
seemed jumbled isolated,
alien; and I felt alone.

I sat next to an older woman
who without looking whispered
see the pretty cow?

Her grandchild came
from the bathroom late—
a case of identity mistaken.

A pickup truck ride later
we were there;
Old barn but a beautiful house.

Grandpa is sitting beside me
smelling earthy,
gasoline and fresh dirt;
spelling out to me
all the summer chores
and those which would be mine.

But, he would help,
and show me
how to milk the cows.

Grandma’s living room was a doily museum,
white starched flower blooms
under lamps
some with coasters inside
one with a flower vase.

This was grandpas and grandmas.

My room was all gingham and florals,
muted pinks, greens and reds-
the one Susie had;
all her things preserved there;
and I ran my finger across some
of them
imagining when she touched them last;
waiting for grandma to close the door.

There was a 4-H photo of Susie and a dairy cow;
a cheerleader’s outfit in the closet;
a boy and her
with prom roses at the front door.

I hug my clothes in the closet slowly
because some of hers were still there,

and I dropped my tennis bracelet
on the closet floor
to discover
a loose board there.

I pried at it to see
a shoe box barely visible in the dark.

I froze
listening close
to see
if anyone would be coming up;
took my nail file and finished
the excavation work;

holding at last in my hand something whose
contents I had
already imagined in my mind
about what was in Susie’s treasure box,
forgotten there.

Easy open; letters wrapped with red ribbon;
jewelry; a photo and other things yet unidentified.

I read around the ribbon
to see some letters
had stamps and had been mailed
others had not-
written but unmailed.

I opened one
and began to read.

“You are my Virgin Spring;
my Thomas flower blooming;
and I am Virgin Ground”.

Struck, should I read on
or close the letter
and put back
the shoe box top?

Whose innocence lay there?

poem by Lonnie Hicks
Added by Poetry Lover
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