One morning as Mama drove us to school
sunrise lit a roadside pasture—more than a silver dusting,
an abundance of glare and glitter, iridescent flash and fire.
But we said nothing about November's first frost,
a treasure scattered over the grass.
Where has this memory been hiding for 50 years?
Why did it lodge like a jewel in vein or pipe,
in a deposit pushed to the surface—by what?
I dream of driving the old Pontiac—
she's a young girl and I am her big brother—
as we reach the crest of that dazzling hill
she takes my hand, she says,
Oh, look Johnny! Can we please stop here, can we stay?
—John Thomas York