Across the yard she chased me
broom raised high, an instrument
for punishment because she
didn’t understand. So, I
ran on winged feet like Hermes;
legs strong, like pistons pumping;
lungs like bellows pushing air;
breathing evenly, in----out.
Youth was on my side, a clear
advantage. I was a young
girl running, running, running
from being taught a lesson,
a lesson in discipline
for being rebellious.
Faster and faster I ran,
mother close behind with broom
aloft and waving; chickens
scattered in our wake; the dog,
a collie, tried to herd us
while Ruby, the Jersey cow,
let out a moo. I was in
the lead of this strange stampede:
a Norman Rockwell scene. Tears
slowed me; I could run no more.
The race was a comedy----
a camaraderie of
mother and daughter, we laughed
and cried and laughed, then cried and
hugged and cried and laughed some more.