I grew up in a small house, with acres of tall grass
and layers of woodland.
In winter we made snowmen;
carrot noses and knitted scarves.
In autumn we lived in leaves, crunching in our hands
and flying away with the wind.
We jumped through sprinklers throughout the hot summers.
Grass shavings stuck to our feet and inchworms fell on our heads.
We drove our old rusted bikes down to the 7-Eleven,
buying every color
of plastic ice popsicles.
We ran around in twilight,
our walkie talkies in hand.
A lone light shined down on us, illuminating the driveway.
Coyotes listened as
we whispered, are you there?
I once climbed a tree and sat down on a thick rotted branch.
I saw the whole town from there,
peeled back the tree’s bark and found hundreds of bugs crawling.
I fell all the way down,
down until I landed on a pile of mulch and worms.
I ran inside, shaking
the house filled my screams.
But I think it was just a dream.