Grandma Billie Jean on a rare snow day with the chickens.

I love Williams’ “The Red Wheelbarrow” poem because of the white chickens.

My grandparents owned a chicken farm in deep East Texas. People came from all over the world to buy roosters and hens from Grandpa Jake.

So whenever I read the words “beside the white chickens” —

I picture their farm. I see their white chickens, and I’m transported back to hot summer mornings, gathering eggs, red dirt under my bare feet, sunlight in my eyes.

I taste watermelon slices, fresh peaches off the trees, homemade peach cobbler, and grits. I smell Grandma’s patterns, fabric, and the oil of her sewing machine.

I hear roosters crow with the dawn, the drone of the fan in the window, and the grease popping on the stove.

“The Red Wheelbarrow” makes me remember.

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