Eight dusty feet and forty pink toes, <br />Two laughing blue eyes above each freckled nose. <br /> <br />Past giant red rhubarb, those winging feet go, <br />Past the old grapevine, green grapes hanging low. <br /> <br />They follow the cow path down a fence posted lane, <br />Where rusted farm relics stay forever the same. <br /> <br />Through a small apple orchard, past sweet yellow pears, <br />Eight feet are skipping abandoning cares. <br /> <br />They cross the gold meadow where big gentle mares, <br />Stop grazing to look with inquisitive stares. <br /> <br />Avoiding the Dewberry patches that prick, <br />The sun is still up when they reach Johnson's crick. <br /> <br />Eight dusty feet and forty pink toes, <br />Splishing and splashing in soaking wet clothes. <br /> <br />In their miniature share of God's great creation, <br />The children indulge in their cool destination. <br /> <br />Kid's of the forties had little to fear, <br />In a place I remember, called 'yesteryear'.<br /><br />Connie Yost<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/forty-pink-toes/
