When we were young we planted trees;
broken branches, shoved in the ground.
Meeting at the stop sign every day to race
forward through another dimension.
A lump of mud we called a hill became our salvation,
at the risk of clay stealing your footwear,
a creative nook to play and explore.
You named the rock after a tiger
and we fed it wild berries.
After claiming all rocks to be alive,
we tried to harvest them from the pavement
as though they were smothering.
Is that how you felt?
Trying to keep in touch,
over these years, at this distance.
Were the memories you held
too crowded with dreams?
Outgrowing your past
must have been a lonely challenge.
Choosing to ignore the mud pulling
at your heels, suctioning your boots,
in the hope that the earth will leave you your pride.
I ask if it would feel any better to accept your dirty socks
and perhaps hold on a little longer
to the railings of bridges you built