Kay Middleton

     I grew up on a small farm in the midwest. Hardly even a farm, really, 3+ acres, but there was a tacked together farm house with a grinning front porch, an old barn, a combination tractor shed/chicken coop, and assorted outbuildings. Since we planted, harvested fields, kept some small livestock and had a working relationship with the feed & seed, we thought ourselves farmers. It's a great way to grow up, among the dirt and animals, doing chores, eating raw vegatables still warmed by the sun and playing ball between apple trees.

     I was (am) the oldest of six children, the others all boys.  These days I introduce them each as my "big" brother because they are, in fact, all bigger than I am now.  There is some justice in that.

     Our home, on a gravel road, was on the eastern edge of the county. Living on the edge was to become a defining position in my life. I left Michigan to live a year in Hawaii and then found myself on the east coast. I stay here quite accidentially. Perhaps, the next year will take me to a new edge or the center.

A swim at the lake

a blanket on the grassy shore of Lake Metamora

where the water rippled cold and brown and we

had to wait an hour after lunch to swim

a lake surely named for an Indian

maiden although research may

prove me inaccurate

homemade strawberry jam licked off

sandy fingers, nails chewed to the quick, I wished

for Twinkies instead of momma’s cupcakes

the shore was steep with roots and rocks, minnows

and snakes in the shallows but we

couldn't wait to splash and float  

riding home in the back of the red station wagon

on a towel in my wet swimsuit, braids smelling

of yellow sun and brown water

I wished for other things, too, like store bought

dresses, that daddy would stop talking and

momma would stop crying.

Short Poem on a Long Winter

the rosemary has wintered over
the season not as harsh
as imagined
while I
trudged wholeful,
lonely,
often lost
winter rested long
dismissing sorrow or poverty
gray and curt and brown
winter rested