Sun and Earth by Carol Casey

The year before my grandfather died 

they bought a new farm.  As the car 

pulled up our eyes were dazzled by a

crowd of dandelions laced through

lawn and orchard, as if the world 

had turned to riches, as if the Sun had 

laughed, wanted to play and sprinkled 

earth-bound, tiny fragments of herself.

We played, plucked, presented posies 

to pleased parents as if they were jewels, 

as if there had never been 

anything like them.

In the cellar was an underworld,

cool, damp, alive with toads, 

as if clumps of dirt had come to life. 

as if the Earth had laughed, wanted to play

and shook off tiny wedges of herself 

with eyes that spoke of heart and deep 

wisdom, wriggling, tickling, cool, 

dry, breathing in our hands. 

We played, plucked, presented posies 

to pensive parents as if they were toys

learned what wild is 

and how there isn’t anything like it. 

Carol Casey lives in Blyth, Ontario, Canada.  She is a member of the Huron Poetry Collective and the League of Canadian Poets. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and has most recently appeared in Fresh Voices, The Prairie Journal, Synaeresis and Plum Tree Tavern (upcoming) as well as in two new anthologies, Tending the Fire, and i am what becomes of broken branch.