Mind Place
R. H. Swift
10/10/78
Sometimes there are things I think that I remember, and one's a place where days are measured from the crowing of a rooster to the hooting of an owl, from sunrise to moonrise, from exodus to bringing back the cows from in the meadow. From how the grass smells, fat, with morning dew, then sharp at noon when freshly cut, to warm, fresh carpeting on which to lie while watching for the night's first stars.
There's a breeze that comes in afternoon to tell us time is passing. And with it brings the lilac's scent, and strawberries lying ripe in musky beds.
Sometimes I'm there alone, but never seem to mind, for all the memories of countless sights and sounds are there to keep me company.
I recall a tent that crouched apprehensively beneath a gnarled old apple tree, waiting for a limb to drop its fresh, sweet fruit. And the apples' smell, and canvas with its wax were comforting to me. And, using dry twigs from the same tree, and blowing on a tiny fire to heat my can of beans.
There was a pond whose bottom I knew better than my own from having often put the two together. In the darkness following a day of sun, I'd languish in the pond and laugh when a sunfish tickled me, and hoot back at the owls in the trees along the bank.
Then, lying on the grass to dry, I'd watch the fireflies dance, and wonder how they made their cool, green light.
But best of all were days and nights with one who lived as I, and loved me, too. With eyes that sparkled, with her quiet laugh, and a voice as soothing as the spring that fed and filled my pond.
The sight and sound, the feel and taste and smell of all lie deep within my mind. And, like the sunfish, splash, to surface joyfully and call me back for more.
"Stay a while," crows the rooster.
"Dream a while," says the moon.
"Rest," says the grass.
"Refresh yourself," the friendly pond implores.
And sometimes now, a million years away and in another world, I hear...and I return.