It’s Easter spring and the hills are green
as they should be, golden fiddleneck
and skiffs of popcorn flowers in between

and we go back to floating scraps
of wood down furrows, sixteen-penny nail,
a mast for leaves. You would retreat

to your throne and princess dreams
in the forks of the walnut tree beyond us all,
or we would drive a team to town

from the dusty seat of the steel-wheeled
manure spreader to visit friends, names
we both remember now after sixty years.

We were turned loose to entertain ourselves,
play with our imaginations before TV
and cell phone screens—more grateful now.

                                                    for my sister Ginni



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