August 2022
June Crawford Sanders
juneinca@aol.com
Bio Note: I am thankful for each day, and for this group in which to share our poems. I have a mini-book published by Ethel due out this summer.

Entitled, Pun Intended

Each of us then should speak of his roads, his crossroads, his roadside benches,
each one of us should make a surveyor’s map of his lost fields and meadows.
- Gaston Bachelard

Bachelard speaks elsewhere of places lived, abodes, rooms, how we fit ourselves into each space and place. My early life began in 1944 in a small white house in a small neighborhood near Lone Star Ordnance Plant, a Texas government munitions facility. After the war, we moved across Red River to a rural area, into a small house with brick siding and forty acres of peach, pear, pecan and pine trees, strawberry fields and grape arbors. The property had been lost in a poker game, then subsequently bought by my Dad. We had pine thickets to build playhouses in, a stable of stick horses to ride with cap guns blazing, meadows for cows and summer baseball games, and a gravel pit where I learned to swim.

      dried peas on a tarp
      we toss high into the air
      the chaff blows away
©2022 June Crawford Sanders
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to say what it is about the poem you like. Writing to the author is what builds the community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -JL