Another one from my memories

 

There She Grows

Where I grew up,

at the edge of the lake,

at the end of Elm Avenue,

the elms are all gone,

but I’m told that,

further down Road Q,

at the bottom of a long backyard,

there’s still a plank swing,

dangling from a long rope,

tied way up high,

around a thick oak branch,

useful for daring dives into the water.

It’s been 60 years since I last saw it,

so surely it’s been changed a few times.

I wonder who does that,

and I wonder how they get up there,

and I wonder if their mom knows about it.

The elms might be gone,

but those firs we planted are living,

or so I’m told by old friends,

the pines my grandfather helped me plant,

even the one that was struck by lightning

on its very first day planted in the earth,

bam, like a spank on a newborn’s bottom.

That one is the tallest, no sign of early scars.

There’s a lesson there, I’m sure,

and maybe I’ll get it one day.