When I think of the old tree at the end of your garden,
I see the gnarled log beside it
(on which we would hop and jump
– who’s the leader, you’re it, I got you, that’s the rule)
I see the swings dangling above ground
(makeshift rope, rickety seats, threaded dreams
– laughs and squeals and raucous screams)
And I see the shades of green and yellow flying underfoot,
lake-black or blinding white when the glare hit our eyes.
When I passed the house yesterday,
I saw those golden tones rusted beneath weather-beaten iron
(on which we hung daisy chains, once
– sometimes sprigs of lavender or parsley peeped through)
I saw ivy-choked walls and the ‘for sale’ sign,
much more slick than the signs we used one summer
(for our 10 cent ‘cider’ that was just poorly crushed apple juice
– pulp and seeds still floating within)
And I saw the fruits of time’s ruthless passage,
flattening dynasties and empires and our homemade swing.
A response to 