Bright Harvest by Grace Noll Crowell - HTML preview

Path in the Grass

T

HIS is the path worn bare by many feet:

My father’s feet who sought his fields at

dawn;

My mother, who would stop to smell the sweet

Wild clover blooming here, and then move on,

Helped make this small meandering path that goes

Its crooked way across the hills and down,

Arched here and there by fennel and wild rose;

Yet still the earth beneath lies packed and brown.

How many childhood mornings I have run

Along this path, my feet scarce touching ground;

The sweet insistent wind, the caressing sun

Brushing my face, with only the lisping sound

Of grass and weeds as I went on swift wing

Helping create this lovely lasting thing.

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