Poetry

We would pile into the ’39 Chevy
and drive to our cousin’s farm,
father’s sermon notes folded into
the Bible and resting on his desk.

We did it for the easy talk,
fragrance of ripening apples, Jake’s
laughter and Anna’s angel food.
Sometimes a late supper under trees

after the last hay bales were lifted
into the barn, light bulb swinging
from the elm, moths swirling,
all of it floating into the sermon notes,

somehow, so that fragrance and wings
sweetened the words of the prophets
the next morning when my father’s voice
stretched over us, his broad hands

lifted at last in benediction,
“bless you and keep you” like a promise,
even for us, the little girls, swinging
our legs impatiently toward afternoon.

Jean Janzen is author of Paper House and other poetry collections and lives in Fresno, Calif.