Fraidy Hole

By John I. Blair

Hard by Aunt Esther’s kitchen,
A two-step from her porch,
Its heavy metal door lay open normal days
To let in air and keep the mildew out;
Dusty, dark, half full of fruit jars,
Its cramped floor not a place to linger;
And we children didn’t often stop
To think what it was built for.

Instead we used it as the mountain
We were kings of, gouged trenches
In the red dirt sides,
Slid off the sloping doorframe
And leapt like bluecoat troopers
On fierce comanches in a frontier fight,
Or sat atop on quiet summer nights
To watch the sparkling stars.

Only when boiling thunderheads
Dropped lightning bolts by dozens
And hailstones pounded down the corn
In Esther’s garden, gale winds
Scattered skinny chickens
And grownups scanned the sky
With anxious eyes
Did we remember.

©2004 John I. Blair