Cradling the corner, humping the hill <br />skimming to the bottom of Prospect Hill <br />a twinkling bell at the door <br />invites us in at Annie’s Antique Store. <br /> <br />Just looking we said <br />at dressers, chairs, and beds <br /> <br />Brushing against edges of long ago <br />waking snuggled reveries <br />of what use to show <br /> <br />we cross the line trading memories. <br />How things have changed from times ago <br />of ours and hers on the farm. <br />So many things have lost their charm: <br /> <br />walking to school in all kinds of weather <br />milking cows I never did but Annie was a pro <br />working in gardens and with green tobacco <br />our close encounters with two mother cows <br /> <br />she a child when only three knocked down <br />by the one with a hooked right horn <br /> <br />yet later fearlessly shackling the legs <br />of old Bessie who kicked her milkers <br /> <br />Wouldn’t want to do those thing today. <br />The old days were not as good as we say. <br /> <br />We bought a print of Birman kittens <br />for three dollars or so. <br /> <br />They all have paws of white you know. <br /> <br />I asked Annie if she had milking hands. <br />She opened them for me to see; <br />didn’t cost me a cent <br /> <br />Some people are paintings yet to be. <br /> <br /> (Berea, KY 2006)<br /><br />Ben Gieske<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/milking-hands/
