Peter Witt is a Texas poet, with poems appearing in online and print publications. He is a former university professor who now devotes his time to researching and writing family history and poetry. He is also an avid birder.
We Were Only Seven
I trusted you, with every breath I took from early morning to late night and every hour in between. You were my first love, the one who took a dare from your girlfriends, kissed me on the cheek, then shyly stood back giggling with your friends while the boys on the playground cheered, slapped me on the back, and pushed me forward to hold your hand. School year ended way too soon, you went away with your family on a cruise along the Atlantic coast, I spent my days going to day camp, playing fetch with my dog, sometimes fishing with my Dad after he got home from work...all the time thinking about seeing you in the fall, with your reddish hair, beautiful smile, and shy brown eyes. When school started again In September I was nervous about seeing you, would you remember the kiss, our holding hands, our shy smiles. But alas, first day I saw you talking with another classmate on the playground, then holding her hand, kissing her on the cheek, looking at her with your shy smile. I felt betrayed. Over the next few years, you were friendly, but always with her, despite the ridicule heaped on you by the other kids...from me there was no angst, just a deep sadness that our time together only lasted a few weeks in the spring of 1950, when bees buzzed around the newborn flowers.
Me and My Granddaughter
I don't have a granddaughter, but if I did she'd know the call of a mockingbird, difference between a male and female cardinal, the color of bluebird eggs. She'd have rough knees from kneeling in the carefully tended dirt in my vegetable garden and would know when it was warm enough to plant tomatoes, cold enough for potatoes. And she'd know how to gather an apron full of greens, how to wash them clean, then cook them in oil, with a little bit of salt and pepper, until tender, but not overdone... all these things she'd know, along with hugs, smiles, and stories read to her about fairies and other forest creatures.
One thought on “Peter Witt”
Love your poetry.
So real and sensitive