Meadowlark
by Amy Lindquist
I lived on sunshine, buttered noodles
and birdsong when I was young.
I was content in the company of trees.
I’d climb into their willing arms,
and crawl into my pocket in the sky.
Buttoned up safely there I’d lie
and talk to God who seemed to listen,
attentive in ten thousand leaves,
the old rock wall, the honeysuckle breeze.
The gullies and pastures were my continent
to explore. Old farm sheds, leaning
and weathered gray, my Alibaba’s cave.
Treasures hushed under sheets of silky dust:
jewel colored jars full of nails, nuts, and bolts,
a clawfoot bathtub, buffalo hide robes.
Growing taller, I befriended the stars,
slipping out onto the roof to visit them,
the day’s heat held in the shingles soaking into my back.
I felt, perhaps selfishly, the world was made for me,
and I was made for the world.
My whole world was the wind and golden grass.
If you carefully cut a cross-section of me
you’ll find concentric rings like a tree.
Fat years, lean years, and close to the core
a circle of sky, and beneath it a girl,
ear cocked to the wind,
listening to a meadowlark sing.
About the Poet
Amy Lindquist lives in St. Paul, Minnesota where she enjoys writing, singing, directing a choir, playing tin whistle with the local Irish Session, taking accordion lessons, and educating her two children. Her poetry explores the intersection of faith, humor, and childhood memories of rural Montana.
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Image is an AI-generated image. Public domain.
