By Sam Low
Those fragile gossamer days on the island when
we raced across the big lawn of stubby grass by the
summerhouse. Running over the hard blades of grass
with the sun at our backs and the blades slicing up
between our toes and the hot grass smell.
Running into the brief woods and onto the path
that led to the road. Then the tar smell and the sand
where the tar of the road ended watching for the
small rocks in the road and the sound of the others
yelling and laughing behind you.
Running for all you were worth.
Running without thinking.
Running on instinct.
Running down the pebbly sand road until you saw
the ocean stretch out before you as big as imagination
as powerful as wonder its broad back gleaming
under the summer sun.
You stopped and the others swarmed around you
and you all looked at the sea. You were a child
with other children and your world spread itself out
obediently before you.
Sam Low lives year-round in Harthaven in Oak Bluffs, and has summered there since he was born in 1942. This poem was inspired by a vivid memory of growing up in that special place.
Poets with a connection to Martha’s Vineyard are encouraged to submit poems to Poet’s Corner curator Laura Roosevelt at email@example.com.