by Claire Taylor
In the beginning, I
tumbled, glass shards in palms,
hollered at trucks storming across the roundabout, and
chucked pinecones from the trees.
I planted my feet in the acorn-littered cement.
I was sugared tomato sweet,
swinging my bare legs against the rungs of stools,
smothering toast in swamps of raspberry jelly,
and leaving sticky fingerprints in borrowed books.
I sang deep into the night, refusing to go quietly.
I scrambled up to climb a maple
with arms outstretched,
and I truly believed that together,
we would rise out
above it all.
Houses splayed like a rainbow of matchboxes,
sky split open like a grin,
sun soaked and shivering,
with each shuddering branch in hand.
And there we were,
and morning glories,
all reaching heavenward
for the outrageous joy of growing.