The Harder Boys' Field

Below our house lay a tiny field,

just large enough for a tiny yield,

sometimes corn, but in most years fallow.

Mom might plant rhubarb or potato,

but the Little Blue would frequently

escape from its banks; we boys would see

crawdads and fish in our short-term lake.

Mom said stay clear for fear of a snake,

so, from milk crates, concrete blocks, and plank,

We built a pier to jut from the bank.

One time, my Granddad hired a dowser,

but dowsing rods did not find water.

It was quite clear, he had no powers.

Most of the time, that field was ours:

a place for ball games and toy gun fights,

cowboys and Indians, windy kite flights.

Google Earth now shows our house is gone,

and Granddad's place, too, is just a lawn.

But, amid new trees, the field remains

with, I hope, some new children's campaigns.

Copyright ©2018, Paul H. Harder II

This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.