The past is never dead. It’s not even past. 
—William Faulkner

Oak leaves stamped against a chicory sky
swirled with clouds, like a marble I once had
and lost. It’s probably still there, caught in a dry
puddle, a tree root, or one of those cracked

pavements of childhood that we walked
on going to school. We roamed the neighborhood
in feral packs, marked up the curb with chalk:
hopscotch, marbles, kickball, only going in for food

or band-aids. No sunscreen, helmets, fancy bikes.
Once, we rode to the creek to swim, dead deer
resting in the shallows. We didn’t think alike:
was it safe to swim, or not?  I can still hear 

my mother calling my name as darkness fell
and fireflies sent messages that only they could spell.