138) Childhood

Surrounded by ragweed and burdock. The silo, crumbling then,
invisible now. A nimbus of squirrel skulls glowing yellow in
the dirt. My memory as empty. Did I climb to the barn's lightning
rod, or just threaten? We weren't farmers. In summer, the
dead man's fields, ours via probate caprice, sprouted gladiolus,
blueberried, rhubarb. We watched bewildered, filled vases and
bowls, but most of it rotted where it stood. The daffodils still
come up without me to cut, rubber-band, and sell them by the
roadside. Four cars a day came by. Here's the rusty coffe can I
dreamed full of dimes.

---Joel Brouwer