Poetry

Fence

August 14 '25 revision

When I think about my childhood, I think of the house.

Morning glories were chalices and

Rose petals pillows for fallen bees.

The peeling birch tree had eyes.

Watched us run across the street,

moving with no ail 

Then it was late.

And the Strawberry tree blocked the view.  

A stranger patted my shoulder.

I can still see the broken wooden fence

The creaky panel and the neighbor's garden. 

Green lined with gold, everything glowed.

I have loved this for a long time.

Only a few times I've crossed.

Tentatively, my bare feet against the damp moss.

Searching, just to find a squirrel and fallen bloom.

There were voices from a distant room.

Have I grown too tall? 

If now, in my old age, I

drink from the flowers, the water,

It will never be the same.

Instead, I will sink

into the mud.

Sitting far down that block,

she is scribbling with chalk.