Oak trees arcing to the sky. Little girls learning to climb them.
No sidewalks to roller skate on. Across the road a path leading
to the big lake called Folsom made from a river called American.
Our swimming spot: Granite Bay. Fool’s gold embedded in rock,
loose in the sand, perfect for pocketing. The wooden motorboat
that Dad and Grandpa made from a kit. Tucked into its bow
two big skis and two little skis. A red flag on a stick to hold up
while a skier waits in the water. Flying across liquid cobalt
on two skis. Then on one. New best friend next door. Following
her down the path for a little explore. “Training” Fluffy’s kittens
to use the cat box. Playing with Sherry’s puppies in the back yard.
Climbing my favorite tree next to the playhouse. Settling with
notebook and pencil into the cradle of trunk and two long-armed
branches. Looking around. Listening for birds. Waiting.
Writing down what comes.
-
Join 547 other subscribers
-
Recent Posts
Archives


I grew up without sidewalks, too! Nice prose poem.