past the ruins of our reclaimed swings
a shy creek makes its nest
in a divot no thicker than a tear drop
and no longer than a bread basket
if at all.
In winter, there is no creek
only a thinly eroded patch
where the powder’s packed a little lower.
beyond the creek
brown stalks, of uprooted evergreens, lay in a shoddy pile.
Me and dad drag out another christmas pine
everytime they outlive their use.
In the spring
when the rain brings life to the creek
And the weeds run up the slide
And the evergreens stay dead
And the oaks bloom with fire
I wonder why I never sat back there alone,
I wonder why I never brought back the girl,
I wonder why I never cried,
behind the sparse green wall.
But I built forts with sticks
And played soldier with Michael
And slaved atop campfires
that popped your sinuses
with evergreen incense.
and I think it was enough.