FREADA DILLON is southern born. She has served on the staff of Habitat for Humanity in Atlanta, the Atlanta College of Art at the Woodruff Arts Center, and The High Museum. Freada is the Poetry Editor for Beginnings Magazine, a Contributing Editor for Burning Word, and the Poetry Editor for coilMagazine.

                                                           spring child


Dewy gemstones scattered through tender grass reflect Daypeep, fresh and new. I test the rusted screened door. It responds with a cranky old creak. Careful. The report of a slamming door will rob solitude. Hesitant for only a moment, I am drawn to my favorite place. Tiptoe. Struggle into the swaying swing. Loll with both legs over one armrest. Worn wood is satiny against backs of downy knees.  

From topsy-turvy vantage point the oak is bowing to me. Such a grand gesture to honor so small a child. Jaybirds love this oak: it’s leafy offering of protection. From tiptop, Jays eye the movements of a local cat population. ‘Catbird’ keeps close watch. Battle is engaged at the slightest provocation. One false move and ‘Cat’ is targeted and dive-bombed. Our Tom stoically crosses the yard, unflinching, while birds repeatedly fling themselves at him. The impression given for his silence seems more a point of honor than bravery.

The neighbor's rooster winds down: a worn alarm croaking sporadically, forgetful of purpose. Drunken buzz of a bumblebee stumbles, bumbles, staggers blossomward. Honeybees fill the air. Industry does not go unrewarded. Nectar gathering reaps a faery dusting on gauzy wings. A diminutive hummingbird appears, disappears in a flurry of wonder. Trailing tendrils and attenuated clusters of wisteria drape branch to fence forming fragrant lavender tapestries. The corner is cascading creamy white honeysuckle.

Fencing groans under Lipstick-pink climbing roses forming bouquets of heady bridal wear.

Nowadays most little girls sit 'lady-like'. I sprawl, feet thrown over the swing back, head dangling. I squint straight into spring dayshine, through greening of tree and vine. Up--up--UP into vibrant motes of swirling diamond dust. In this, my bejeweled cloister imagination is fueled. I close my eyes, feel the rhythmic swaying; a breeze tickles fuzz on my cheeks. Fragrance is palpable. A peek through red-gold lashes seems in order for one, last glimpse of cerulean sky before drowsing.

What I witness jolts me upright into full, adrenaline-pumping wakefulness: a stark and unforgiving landscape, all harsh lines and angles in black and white contrast. Chiaroscuro.

Gone, sparkling pastels, soft and curving contours, fragrance on delicate breeze. Euphoria has flown, again.  Dazzled site is dulled, again. Again, and yet again I am locked inside a reality from which I can find no escape.   Or am I locked out?

                                                                  # # #

Copyright © 2002 Freada Dillon