To See a World in a Grain of Sand

© 2018 Art Elser

ISBN-978-0-9984554-5-7

As always to Kate —

my inspiration

and love of my life 

To see a world in a grain of sand,

And a heaven in a wild flower,

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,

And eternity in an hour.

William Blake Auguries of Innocence

Blueberry Summers

Blueberry Summers

Five kids follow Aunt Vi along

a deeply worn path in the forest.

We each have a sack lunch, a pail,

a small pot to gather berries in.

A half mile later we cross an oiled

county road and walk a few yards

into the woods to a clearing with 

hundreds of blueberry bushes.

At first we walk from bush to bush

but tire quickly and soon sit to pick. 

One for the pot, for me, for the pot,

two for me . . . . Dump pot into pail,

start filling it again, eating some

as we move on to the next bush.

The berries are sun-warm and sweet

and leave dark blue stains on mouths

and hands that are tough to wash off.

I wash away the stains from picking

and eating those blueberries but not

the memories of blueberry summers.

I Meet Ceola

The other day I met Ceola.

I shook hands with her. 

Her hands were rough, but gentle.

I never saw a person whose skin

is black like hers. None of the kids

in our school have black skin.

Black skin and a bright red bandana,

and when she smiles, her teeth and eyes

are so white. I like Ceola. She is very

gentle, like Aunt Vi.

I asked Aunt Vi about Ceola.

She said Ceola has grown children,

a daughter in Harlem and a son

fighting the Nazis in Italy.

She has a husband, Alfred.

They moved to New York from Georgia.

They live on a farm miles from any other house.

They plow their field with a mule.

They raise their own food.

They have a cow for milk.

They have no electricity.

Ceola comes to town once or twice

a month, sometimes on the mule,

to get kerosene and food they can't

grow on their farm.

I asked Mommy about Ceola.

She said Ceola has grown up children

who live somewhere else. I asked if I

could walk to Ceola's house

because she invited me.

Mommy got mad and said, "No!

Don't ever ask again!" When I asked

why Ceola smelled like kerosene,

she said,