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This Here Agate- Hunting Place

Young eyes search.
Small hands sift.
Intent upon seeking red diamonds
trapped amongst the drift.
Gleaming ruby pebbles
polished like the scales of a fish...
some as large as knuckles,
others only blinking sequins...
Go find as many as you wish.
Knees pock-marked with gravel,
looking like rocks themselves.
Remember the red back of your neck,
how he called you burnished elves?
Remember his tall, steady shadow?
Remember his muddy pointing stick?
And the St Croix River sighing,
the no-see-ums buzzing by your ears
mean, fast and thick.
Dirty water stained your keds
as the barges washed the waves
to and fro...
With Grandpa bent-kneed,
digging right beside you, down below.
When you tugged upon his shorts,
a wide smile split apart his face,
Saying ain't this a sliver of heaven,
this here agate-hunting place?

Meloo/Melissa A. Howells Copyright 2010, but written and re-written over a period of time
For Grandpa Thompson, a fine gentleman and a best friend.

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