Childhood summers

A bush

with shiny green leaves that never flew away,

happy leaves that couldn’t die

because we never came during the winter.

A house

with two flat, round stones for our beds

and a little home-made window in the shape of an oval

for our kitchen.

A refuge

where we tried to sneak in at night once;

but it rained, and our parents made us

wash the dirt off the sheets.

A restaurant

where we would pretend to cook

leaves, sticks and stones, yet still

it was the best restaurant ever.

At play time we picked out identities

like Alexia, or Phoebe—

and sometimes,

even my brother was allowed to play.

We would make “hors d’oeuvres”

by folding the leaves and stabbing them

with their own stems.

We stole pans for our kitchen.

Our restaurant

with pots and pans that endlessly rusted.

Our refuge

with its soft and leafy smell that made my cousin sneeze.

Our house

with the muddy pink blanket we had forgotten.

It was our bush

growing out of control

along with our childhood.