Moonshine

There are no elm trees
on Elm Avenue anymore,
but so many grew
to the sky’s lower shelf
when I was a boy, yet new,
in awe of everything.
The lake was a wonder,
a playground without toys,
and, oh, the hours we spent,
and, oh, the heartfelt joys.
The farms were near,
their barns inviting,
the smells as intoxicating
as moonshine.
The woods called out,
come roam and hide,
treasures to be found,
meandering trails to follow,
no clue to the other side.
The sky was like a book,
its pictures ever-changing,
and we, the authors, the ones
whose visions made the tales,
endings ever rearranging.
The nights were filled with sounds,
owls and crickets and kids,
the elm tree canopy along our road
a full moon peeking through,
but mostly we were hid,
free to be, free to be.
What’s it like now, I wonder,
for the children in that home
my family built along the shore?
There are no elm trees
on Elm Avenue anymore.