bitter is what I remember,
growing stoutly against the leaning barn,
broad green leaves with
familiar red stalks,
a row of healthy fruit
that Grandma would sweeten
and make pies for Sunday dinner.
Michellia D. Wilson 8/13/2016
24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
bitter is what I remember,
growing stoutly against the leaning barn,
broad green leaves with
familiar red stalks,
a row of healthy fruit
that Grandma would sweeten
and make pies for Sunday dinner.
Michellia D. Wilson 8/13/2016
This is SO compact – and yet it says SO much (sorry for all the capitals!). I love the fact that you begin the poem with the word ‘bitter’ (what I certainly identify with unsweetened rhubarb) and conclude the poem with the image of the pie made by your Grandmother for Sunday dinner. Lovely!
Thank you for taking time to comment on my poem. I remember rhubarb so well growing up – that bitterness and how my Grandmother could make it taste so good. Good memories.