Eight dusty feet and forty pink toes,
Two laughing blue eyes above each freckled nose.
Past giant red rhubarb, those winging feet go,
Past the old grapevine, green grapes hanging low.
They follow the cow path down a fence posted lane,
Where rusted farm relics stay forever the same.
Through a small apple orchard, past sweet yellow pears,
Eight feet are skipping abandoning cares.
They cross the gold meadow where big gentle mares,
Stop grazing to look with inquisitive stares.
Avoiding the Dewberry patches that prick,
The sun is still up when they reach Johnson's crick.
Eight dusty feet and forty pink toes,
Splishing and splashing in soaking wet clothes.
In their miniature share of God's great creation,
The children indulge in their cool destination.
Kid's of the forties had little to fear,
In a place I remember, called 'yesteryear'.
Connie Yost
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/forty-pink-toes/
