~After “The Garden of Childhood” by May Sarton

The scent of any barn
returns me to Pop-pop's hayloft,
to a time I could easily crouch
to pet my cat’s first kittens
and roll down backyard hills
wrapped in leaves and giggles.
The time I first felt betrayal—
clover’s mat turned enemy
with a single stinger, and dismay—
turtles escaping despite their clumsy 
masquerade. And when I dug
a hole by hopeful trowelfuls
to take me to China and we sisters
a clubhouse trap to ensnare any
bold passing boys (though none
were ever caught). In those days
my sister and I even stopped time 
by nectaring throats with native
honeysuckle while clearing paths
we never dreamed we would see
the ends of.
                        

I live in a room, 
unfurnished, but for 
light spiraling through 
bay windows, some beveled to
prism each day’s light to a rainbow.

This room’s the one
I show friends, where
nature courts our awe, filtered
through glass. It pulses with songs 
in myriad shades of leaf green, paradise
blue and painted bunting that fill every breath.

I also live in a room darkened by grave-
cloth curtains that billow
to reveal no more than 
an occasional
wasp nest.

This other room is where I’m jostled
by strangers. It gasps at each jilted
hope, its nooks cobwebbed
with weeping whispers.
There no soul sings
nor finds use for
language.
                        

I remember a summer
we nearly lived on the porch.

The song sparrow sang sentry
braving maple’s swaying lookout.

Orioles dabbed linden’s perch
with season’s first haute couture.

A family of flickers strutted by,
driveway bugs their meaty brunch.

And plucking a slow-motion tune
the yellow-billed cuckoo thought itself

hidden behind sycamore’s
camo duds. Now you nap inside

with a lapful of Sheltie
and I porchsit alone, propped

on pillows, grieving to see
so few of our nectar-needling

hummingbird chums
rappelling the breeze

as I can only dream of doing.